


A Price To Be Paid

by DKNC



Series: Would That You Were Mine [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:10:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6215779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than half a year has passed since the events of "Broken." Ned left Winterfell for King's Landing once more, Brandon has worked at consolidating the support of his bannermen in the wake of his bastard's birth and Barbrey's death, and Catelyn has endeavored to be a dutiful wife and Lady of Winterfell although she still misses Ned desperately.</p><p>Now, for unclear reasons, King Robert Baratheon, accompanied by Ned, is coming to Winterfell. Catelyn worries about what the king might want and is filled with both anticipation and dread at seeing Ned again. The royal visit proves to be fraught with multiple potential dangers for Brandon, Catelyn, Ned, and all their children. Catelyn has always feared there would be a price to be paid for Brandon's sins and her own. But how high will the cost be? And who will pay it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Price To Be Paid

Catelyn shivered and pulled the bedcovers tighter around her. Her room wasn’t truly cold, but she certainly felt much cooler now that her husband’s body no longer covered hers in the large bed.

She heard him laugh and looked up to where he stood beside the bed lacing his breeches. She couldn’t see his face well in the darkened room, but she heard the amusement in his voice clearly enough. “Poor Cat,” he said. “I fear your blood will never thicken, my lady, however many years you live in the North.”

“I have survived it thus far, my lord,” she said simply. “I don’t expect I’ll freeze to death.”

He laughed again. “No. You’ll not freeze. You’re too stubborn by far to succumb to the cold, however thin-blooded you are.”

He meant it as a compliment, she knew. However, his frequent references to her ‘southron blood’ only served to remind her that even as he steadfastly confirmed her place as the Lady of Winterfell, Brandon in many ways considered her as much as an outsider as so many of his bannermen did. It had been a long year since little Bran’s birth—one in which much had happened—and in spite of Brandon’s numerous successes in consolidating his position with his contentious Northmen, Catelyn sometimes felt as if she were still on trial—as if her crime of simply not being Northern born was greater than his crime of getting a bastard on the highborn daughter of a respected Northern House.

“Here,” she heard him say. She looked up to see him holding her nightshift out to her. She’d put it on less than a quarter hour before he’d come to her room and promptly removed it. She honestly hadn’t expected him this night as he’d bedded her both the previous two nights, and he generally did not visit her room more than once or twice a week—not since the first weeks she’d allowed him back into her bed, anyway. That very first week he’d shared her bed every night and been very attentive to her even throughout the days—sometimes more so than she’d been comfortable with in front of other people. She’d suspected him of playing the role of attentive husband for the Karstarks, and that was undoubtedly at least part of his motivation. But she had to admit that his ardor had only slowly decreased in intensity even after they left, and now his attentions to her were rather the same as they had been before Barbrey Dustin had ever conceived his bastard. In some ways, he was more attentive than he’d ever been to her as there were no more lengthy visits to Barrow Hall. He did find her desirable, at least. And he was trying, in his own way, to be good to her. 

“Cat?”

She startled, realizing that her husband still stood there holding out the nightshift as she’d been staring into space lost in thought. She reached up to take it from him. “Thank you. And I’m sorry, my lord. I’m afraid my mind is running away on its own.”

“Where’s it running?” he asked as she sat up to pull the nightshift over her head. Then he drew in his breath as the furs fell away from her, and her naked body was exposed from the waist up. “Looking at you like that has mine wanting to run straight back into your bed,” he laughed.

She was lifting the nightshift over her head as he spoke, but she stopped at his words. “Shall I leave it off then?” she asked him. He was her husband. She wouldn’t deny him.

He groaned. “No, put it on, please. As much as I’d love to have you again before I go, I promised Vayon Poole I’d come and speak to him before I retire.”

“At this hour?” Catelyn asked as the nightshift settled around her, covering her body and lessening the chill, but doing nothing to ease the discomfort she felt at the thought of her husband telling their steward to wait until he’d fucked his wife. _He means no disrespect,_ she told herself. “What does he want that can’t wait?”

Brandon sighed. “We’ve had word that the royal party is no more than three days out.”

“Brandon! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“A rider only brought word after you’d already left the Great Hall to settle the children,” he said defensively. “And it isn’t like you didn’t know they were on the way.”

“Yes, and I’ve already spoken with Vayon about the accommodations to be arranged for our guests. What could he possibly . . .”

“He isn’t questioning any of your orders, Cat,” Brandon said quickly, forcing her to admit to herself that he sometimes understood her concerns better than she gave him credit for. He sighed. “The man who saw the royal party on the Kingsroad reported significantly more men than Ned wrote would be coming, and Vayon isn’t certain what to do about them.”

Catelyn rose from her bed then. She could think better on her feet. “I don’t like it, Brandon. I haven’t liked any of this from the beginning, but now . . .”

“Come now,” he interrupted in an attempt to soothe her. “Don’t you want to see Ned at least?”

“Of course I want to see Ned,” she snapped, hoping that her irritation and the dark room would mask the complex storm of emotions that even the thought of seeing Ned provoked within her. “But his letter gave no reason for Robert’s visit. None at all! And I can’t imagine that Robert Baratheon simply wants to view the sights in the North, Brandon. Ned has told us any number of times about how cold and remote the man considered the Eyrie, and you both used to laugh at how he complained it was freezing at Seagard during the Greyjoy Rebellion! No—he wants something from us. Mark my words. Something Ned felt he couldn’t speak of in a letter. And if he’s brought extra men . . . well, perhaps he means to make it clear he intends to have whatever it is he wants.”

“Cat . . .” Brandon said hesitantly. “Your concerns about the king’s coming here are valid, my lady, and I share them. But . . . the extra men aren’t Robert’s. Our rider reported that the royal party was accompanied by company of horsemen from the Rills. He saw the Ryswell banners.”

At her husband’s words, Catelyn felt suddenly colder than she’d been before she’d put on her nightshift. “Is Lord Ryswell among them?” she asked, willing her voice to steady and calm.

“I don’t know. But I would assume so, given the size of the company. At the very least, one or more of his sons will be here.”

“The king and the Ryswells coming here together?” She nearly shrieked it. “How could Ned keep this from us? I won’t have it, Brandon. I will not have that bastard . . .”

Brandon walked briskly to her and took hold of both her arms. “I won’t have it, either,” he said before she could even utter the word ‘legitimized.’ “And neither will Ned. I don’t know what Ryswell’s playing at, but I will put him in his place. I’m the Lord of Winterfell, and he answers to me. If Lord Rodrik’s forgotten that, I’ll simply remind him. He doesn’t have the backing he once thought he did.”

She nodded, pressing her lips together, afraid that her voice would tremble with both fear and anger if she tried to speak. Brandon had spent a great deal of time and energy consolidating the support of his bannermen in the previous moons. The visit by Lord Karstark’s family had been a turning point of sorts as the man had initially been one of Brandon’s harshest critics. But he had left Winterfell well satisfied by Brandon’s responses to his various disputes with Roose Bolton, and it didn’t hurt that his wife had positively fallen in love with their children. Brandon had ridden out to the Dreadfort less than a moon’s turn later to discuss those same disputes with Bolton and returned home triumphant, having secured Lord Bolton’s agreement to all of Karstark’s demands in return for Brandon’s promise to support the Dreadfort’s right to punish any poachers caught south of Last River regardless of whose men they were. Then three moons ago, one of the frequent disputes among the mountain clans erupted into all out warfare, with violence spilling over into the lands around Deepwood Motte and even threatening smallfolk on land east of the mountains which fell under the protection of Last Hearth. Brandon had ridden out with a force of men to Winterfell managing not only to end the violence quickly, but to earn the respect of the mountain chieftains for his strength and courage. They’d not only pledged to keep the peace with each other, but renewed their fealty to Winterfell. Master Glover of Deepwood Motte and Lord Umber of Last Hearth had likewise been impressed by Brandon’s intervention and expressed their both their immense gratitude and their devoted fealty to their liege lord. Catelyn could not deny that Brandon had both strengthened his hold upon the North and ruled it well since acknowledging his bastard for all to know.

“You know what I’m saying is true, my lady,” Brandon said softly when she remained silent. 

He still had his hands on her arms. His face was close enough to hers that even in the darkness, she could see the plea in his eyes. She could see the tension as well. Brandon was far more worried about this visitation than he wished to admit. Bitterly, she realized that explained his visit to her room tonight. Whenever Brandon was tense about anything, he sought some sort of physical outlet. Had he received word of the Ryswells’ impending arrival earlier, he might have taken to the practice yard and beaten some poor soldier half to death with his sword, but sex was always his favored method of stress relief. She supposed it was better that he used her rather than some brothel whore, but she resented being used just the same. Had he told her what had transpired before he’d bedded her, she might have felt differently. She might have considered it more a matter of comfort than use. And he was her husband. It was her place to give him comfort.

“I know,” she said softly. “You will do whatever you must to protect your children. I do not doubt that, my lord.”

“Good,” he said. “Because it is the truth, my lady.” He let go of her. “Now, where did I throw my damn shirt? Vayon is probably pacing by now.”

Wordlessly, Catelyn retrieved Brandon’s shirt and his boots as well. When he was dressed, he bent to kiss her forehead in a manner that was surprisingly affectionate and comforting. “Sleep, my lady, and remember that I will allow no insult or hurt to come to our children.”

She stared at the closed door a moment after he was gone, trying to remember any time that Brandon had attempted to reassure her with such a kiss before. She couldn’t. She wished she could be grateful for that fleeting display of affection now, but she couldn’t. And she couldn’t lay the fault for that at Brandon’s feet. Whatever sins her husband had committed, it was her own sin that prevented her from opening her heart to him any further now. She’d determined to be a good and dutiful wife to him and she would. But her heart remained Ned’s. For all that she tried to keep him from her mind entirely, she couldn’t keep him from her heart for he’d taken it with him when he’d ridden south again.

Wide awake now and realizing she would find no sleep, Catelyn walked to her dressing table and lit the lamp there before sitting down and picking up her brush. Brandon’s lovemaking had been urgent to the point of roughness tonight. He hadn’t hurt her, really. He wouldn’t do that. But he had taken her with a frenzied sort of forcefulness that would likely leave her sore come the morrow. At least she could repair the damage done to her hair now rather than sleep with it tangled and have it even worse upon waking.

As she pulled the brush slowly through her hair, she thought upon all that Brandon had told her. Ned would never have kept silent about it if this royal visit were truly some joint venture of the king and Rodrik Ryswell to have the bastard legitimized. She knew that. Of course, she could think of no other reason Ryswell would ride to Winterfell with the king, but likely the damned man had simply heard of the royal visit and chosen to plead his case to the king himself and then come to Winterfell along with Robert in order to force Brandon to at least give him an audience about it. Not that Brandon had ever denied him entry to Winterfell. He’d made it clear Lord Rodrik could see the little bastard whenever he wanted. He simply forbade him to even speak of legitimization. For all the good lord’s protestations of love and concern over Barbrey’s whelp, he’d actually come to see him only once and hadn’t even sent a letter on the boy’s first name day. He was a loathsome opportunist who sought to take what wasn’t his, and Catelyn hated the thought of him playacting the part of an aggrieved, doting grandfather as he rode along the Kingsroad with Robert Baratheon.

 _Ned will never allow Robert to listen to him._ That thought brought her more comfort than all of Brandon’s assurances. She recalled well both the fury and the cold resolve on Ned’s face when he’d come to her after Roger Ryswell had asked him to go to Robert and urge him to legitimize Barbrey’s bastard babe. Ned would protect her. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought. Brandon and Ned both would protect the children. Brandon would protect her position as his lady wife. But Ned would protect her simply for her own sake. Because he loved her.

 _He loves me,_ she thought, and immediately felt guilt for the comfort that thought brought her. Gods knew that her love for him could bring Ned no comfort. He was alone, and she knew he would remain so. Ned would never wed another woman while he loved her, and selfishly, Catelyn was glad of that. Yet, she hated herself for that selfishness. Ned deserved to be loved more than anyone she’d ever known. And she had made that impossible for him. She and Brandon were not alone at least, whatever else they were and were not. They shared meals and conversation and children . . . and her bed. And while it was not the life she wished for, it was not entirely bad. She liked Brandon, even loved many things about him even as she resented other things. She thought that if she weren’t in love with Ned, she might even love more about him and resent less—although she knew herself and him well enough to know she could never feel for him even a small portion of what she felt for his brother. _His brother._ She always tried to think of Ned as Brandon’s brother, but in truth, he had long ago become first and foremost her love. And no silly word games on her part could change that. And that love had driven Ned from his home and sentenced him to a life of loneliness. Rightly or wrongly, Catelyn felt far more guilt over that than about loving a man who was not her husband.

As she tilted her head to the side and raised up a long section of her hair to brush, she caught sight of a rather large bruise on the side of her neck—testament to Brandon’s unrestrained passion earlier. She bit her lip and prayed that it would fade enough to go unnoticed within three days and that the visitors would not arrive before then. She could think of no formal hairstyle that would not leave that part of her neck uncovered, and she must dress formally to play hostess to the king. If it were only the king and Lord Ryswell, she wouldn’t care about the mark. She could handle men’s japes well enough, and while she wasn’t comfortable with Brandon’s more amorous displays when others looked on, she knew there was no shame to be found in the lovemaking between a man and his wife. But it would hurt Ned to see it. 

Looking at her neck, she couldn’t keep her mind from going back to that night—over half a year ago now—when she’d kissed Ned, really kissed him for the first time since the day they’d made love, and for what must be the last time in their lives. She’d kissed him and begged him to kiss her, told him she loved him, and then told him she would be taking Brandon back into her bed. His face had been terrible to see—the pain, the jealousy, the guilt—even as he’d encouraged her to do precisely what she said. Because they both knew there was nothing else for her to do.

She’d left him there and returned to the feast where she’d smiled at Lord Karstark and spoken with Lady Karstark about all their children and allowed Brandon to run his hand over her thigh beneath the table without objection. When the dancing started, she’d danced with any number of men, mindful of her role as hostess, but she’d danced mostly with Brandon, allowing him to press her more tightly against him than was strictly proper, and not protesting when his hands wandered a bit more than they should.

Brandon had been drinking quite a bit, although not enough to make him behave boorishly. He’d remained a charming host. He had drunk enough to not realize quite how much Catelyn was drinking, however. She’d known that she’d likely falter in her resolve if she could think or feel at all, so she’d fortified herself with the wine. About an hour after the dancing started, she’d ordered Robb and Jon to bed, much to their dismay; and to her own dismay, found that she swayed a bit on the stairs as she walked them to their room. If the boys noticed anything amiss with her, they hadn’t let on. When she’d returned to the Great Hall, she’d immediately been asked to dance by several people, and she’d found her head spinning faster than any other part of her. When Brandon had finally claimed her again, she’d whispered, “I think I should like to go to bed, my lord.”

He’d grinned that wicked grin of his—the one that had made her heart beat faster when she was a girl of three and ten—and made rather hasty farewells to the guests with admonishments that they should carry on all night if they wished. Catelyn hadn’t been so drunk as to not recognize the knowing looks that followed them out of the Hall.

When they’d reached her chamber door, Brandon had hesitated. “Do you wish me to come in, my lady?” he’d asked her.

Want him to share her bed? She couldn’t answer that question truthfully. So she’d simply said, “It is past time that you shared my bed again, my lord.”

“Well, that’s what I’ve been saying for a long time now, isn’t it?” He’d kissed her then. Right there in the corridor. He’d pushed her against the still-closed door and pressed the length of his body against her, and she’d had a momentary desperate impulse to scream and push him away. Instead, she’d thought of Ned’s lips on her lips and Ned’s arms holding her body against his as he’d done just a few hours before, and she’d thrown her arms around her husband, returning his kiss with a passion that surprised him.

It had Brandon who’d broken the kiss. “Gods, Cat!” he’d exclaimed. Then he’d opened the door to her chambers, picked her up, and carried her to the bed where they were both quickly naked without Catelyn quite realizing how it happened. In spite of his drinking, Brandon had been more than ready, and likely because of her own drinking, Catelyn had found herself eagerly responding to his touches as well. A small part of her mind had insisted this was wrong, that she should take no pleasure in it, but when Brandon put his lips to her breasts and his hand between her thighs, she’d cried out and sunk her nails into his back, seeking to pull him even closer against her. It had been a year since Brandon had been in her bed as she had refused him since he’d brought the bastard home and he wouldn’t bed her when her belly grew with Bran before that. It had been a year since she’d felt any hand upon her sex but her own, and it had only been hours since she’d had Ned’s lips upon hers and his hand upon her breast, setting her aflame with a desire they dared not allow themselves to quench. There in her bed, as Brandon had sucked at her breasts and her neck and moved his fingers in and out of her as his thumb pressed against her sensitive little nub, she’d given herself to the haze of the wine and the wanting of her flesh and allowed it drown out the part of her mind that insisted she belonged to someone else. And when Brandon had pushed himself inside her, she’d arched beneath him and met his thrusts, seeking her own release as desperately as he sought his.

Afterward, he’d collapsed atop her, and she’d lain there panting, feeling both sated and ashamed; and it struck her that she felt more ashamed, more guilt-ridden, than she had when she and Ned had lain together—when she had actually committed adultery. _I belong to Ned,_ she’d thought as she’d felt tears begin to pool in her eyes. _No,_ she’d told herself. _Your heart belongs to Ned. You belong to Brandon._

She’d become aware that Brandon was shaking as he lay atop her and realized he was laughing.

“Do you find something amusing, my lord?” she’d asked.

He’d raised up then, looking down into her face with that same grin. “You,” he’d said. “You behave as if you’re made of ice for more moons than I can count, and now you fuck me like you’re made of fire.” He shook his head and grinned at her. “I don’t understand you, Cat, but godsdamn, you were incredible tonight.”

She hadn’t known how to respond to that so she’d tried to smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tears swimming in her eyes. 

He hadn’t. He’d pulled himself out of her and off her with a groan, stretching his long arms and legs as he rose to stand. “I don’t just mean in bed, although that certainly was an incredible performance, my lady. But you were wonderful in the Great Hall. I think even Rickard Karstark is half in love with you, and he’s a colder fish than Ned!”

She’d steeled herself against any reaction to his complimenting her ‘performance’ although it had made her feel even dirtier and more wrong than she’d already felt, but his derisive mention of Ned stung more deeply. “You shouldn’t say unkind things about your brother, my lord,” she’d said, feeling compelled to defend him but fearing to allow any emotion into her words or voice.

He’d laughed and bent to kiss her once more. He’d pressed his lips to hers and pushed his tongue past them, but she hadn’t responded in kind. Whatever mad passion had possessed her before had been quenched, and once more she’d had to remind herself not to flinch at his touch.

He hadn’t seemed to notice. He’d simply stood upright again and begun to retrieve his clothing. “My brother is a fine man,” he’d said. “Certainly the most honorable I know. But he’d not know what to do with a fine, warm woman like you.” He’d smiled at her. “Enough about Ned, though. You charmed the Karstarks tonight, my lady. You were indisputably the Lady of Winterfell, and I salute you.” He’d raised an imaginary glass in the air and then bent to pull on his breeches. When he was dressed, he’d looked at her again. “Does tonight mean your anger has finally cooled and I may return to your bed whenever I wish?”

“I am your wife,” she’d said. “You have every right to share my bed.”

He’d frowned at that. “Wife or no, I’ve not forced myself on you, and I won’t.”

“No,” she’d said softly. “You have been patient with me, my lord.” _And you have availed yourself of every whore near Winterfell to help you maintain that patience._ “But your bastard shares a nursery with our son Bran. And that is not an easy thing to accept.”

His frown had deepened. “I have told you that Rickard remains at Winterfell, and I’ll not hear . . .”

“I’m not asking you to send him way, Brandon. And I’ll not keep you from my bed again. I only ask that as I acknowledge your patience with me, you acknowledge I have had reason for my anger.”

She’d watched him tighten his jaw. “I’ve acknowledged I wronged you,” he’d said after a moment. “Now we shall both move past it.” He must have realized that sounded like an order for he’d sighed and stepped forward, reaching down to touch her cheek. “I enjoyed tonight very much, Cat. And it certainly seemed to me that you did as well.” He’d smiled. “If I didn’t want to be certain I’m awake and suitably ‘lordly’ before any of our esteemed guests arise to break their fast, I’d take these clothes off again right now and make you cry out like that again. But we should both sleep, so I’ll look forward to doing that tomorrow night. Goodnight, my lady.” He’d left her then without saying anything more. 

When she’d awakened the following morning, she’d seen the bruises his lips had left upon her neck and chest. She’d covered them as best she could, choosing a dress that covered her up to the neck, but some of the places on her neck remained visible. She’d gone to the nursery to feed Bran before leaving him with his nurse and gathering the other children to go to the Great Hall. They were early enough that the Hall was mostly empty, but Ned and Brandon had both already been seated in their places, and both men looked up as the children called out greetings.

She’d allowed the children to run ahead of her without admonishing them. Even little Arya had toddled after the older three, leaving her mother behind. When Catelyn had reached them, the two boys were talking over top of each other about the feast the night before, Sansa was frowning at Brandon and asking why she hadn’t gotten to dance, and Arya was attempting to climb into an empty chair.

“Good morning, my lady,” Brandon had said with enthusiasm, giving her a look that left no doubt about where his thoughts were. 

Feeling the crimson heating up her cheeks, she’d said, “Good morning, my lord,” and bent to retrieve Arya before she injured herself. Rising up with her squirming daughter in her arms, she’d forced her voice into a neutral tone to say, “Good morning, Ned.”

He’d been looking at the two boys who were actually jumping up and down in their eagerness to tell him what he’d missed after leaving the Great Hall the night before, but he’d looked up at her when she spoke. “Good morning, my . . .” He’d stopped speaking suddenly, and his expression had seemed to harden as his grey eyes narrowed slightly.

Catelyn had realized he was staring at her neck. Self-consciously, she’d put her free hand up to it which seemed to have shaken Ned out of his frozen state. “Good morning, my lady,” he’d said stiffly, but he hadn’t looked at her. Nor had he looked at her or spoken to her throughout the rest of his time in the Great Hall, and he’d excused himself rather quickly. Brandon, thankfully, hadn’t noticed.

Now, looking at her reflection, she realized she’d brought her hand up to her neck to cover this new bruise just as she had then. And no one was even here to see it. “Oh gods, Ned. What am I going to do when you are here again?” she whispered. 

It had been terrible, the remainder of the time the Karstarks were there. Brandon had been determined to prove himself everything a Lord of Winterfell should be, and that apparently included devoted husband. Catelyn had blushed at several of the kisses he’d bestowed on her in full view of the Karstarks and any number of other people. She’d feared the Karstarks might be offended or find it improper, but Lord Karstark had just laughed about the appetites of wolves, and Lady Karstark had actually called the two of them adorable. No one had any illusions as to why Brandon escorted her to her room each night, either, and Catelyn had noticed that Ned had very quickly begun retiring early every evening so that he was always gone from the Great Hall before she and Brandon made their exit. And every day, his eyes had looked more hurt and haunted. No one else had seemed to notice. Not even Brandon. But she had watched him slowly being eaten from the inside from hurt and anger and jealousy, and of course the guilt he carried over feeling any of those things.

Of course, Ned knew Brandon had bedded her even after the two of them had declared their love for each other and had their one moment of passion. Little Bran was testament to the fact that she had resumed marital relations with her husband in spite of her love for Ned. And he’d known she would do so. There was never any choice about it. But he’d left Winterfell the day after he and Catelyn had cast honor and duty aside for the only time in their lives--making love and making Arya. He hadn’t returned for nearly two years, and she was well along in carrying Bran then so Brandon had stopped coming to her bed. It had struck her that the miserable visit from the Karstarks marked the first time Ned had been in Winterfell while Brandon was in her bed since Ned had been in her bed himself. 

And it was torture. For both of them. After the Karstarks left, Brandon’s visits to her bed gradually slowed as both the need to impress guests with his marital devotion and the novelty of bedding her again after such a long period disappeared. Yet, she and Ned had still found it difficult to even hold a conversation. And there were still too many nights when he had to lie alone in his room knowing that Brandon was fucking her just a few rooms away. She’d hated herself for that.

She had hated herself even more because, while she didn’t love Brandon and never would, she couldn’t honestly say that bedding him was entirely unpleasant. She didn’t want to enjoy coupling with him, and in many ways, she didn’t. There was no sharing of her heart or the sense of being loved so overwhelmingly as she’d known with Ned. Brandon loved her no more than she loved him, and she rather doubted that he was capable of giving as much of himself to anyone as Ned had given to her in their lovemaking. But while she’d never experienced such intense pleasure in her marriage bed as she had with Ned, it didn’t change the fact that Brandon did know how to make the act enjoyable for a woman. _Gods know he’s had enough practice with enough women,_ Catelyn thought, somewhat bitterly. While he was usually more focused on his own pleasure than hers, he did enjoy making her body respond, and some nights he did leave her gasping for breath. 

That had felt like the greatest betrayal of her love for Ned, and facing him every day had gotten more difficult as time passed. When Brandon came to her less than a moon’s turn after the Karstarks’ departure, on the eve of his own departure for the Dreadfort, complaining bitterly that Ned had decided he must return to King’s Landing, she hadn’t been surprised. And while her heart had twisted inside her at the thought of his leaving, she’d honestly been relieved. Which gave her one more reason to hate herself. He’d be leaving Jon again. And Arya. She was driving him away from his home and children.

He hadn’t come to her to speak about it himself until the night before he actually left, a full five days after Brandon had gone. While he hadn’t said so specifically, Catelyn thought it likely took being there without Brandon’s presence in her bed or anywhere near her before he felt comfortable enough in her presence again to have any kind of conversation. And it had been a brief one.

“You know I have to go.”

He’d come up behind her as she rocked Bran to sleep in the nursery.

“Yes,” she’d said without turning around.

“It isn’t your fault, Cat.”

At that, she had turned around. Of course it was her fault. Yet, when she’d looked into his eyes, she’d seen no blame, not even the anger that burned there so often since the morning after the feast for Lord and Lady Karstark. She’d seen only sadness, guilt, and above all else, love.

“I wish . . .” She’d bitten her lip for she had no words for what she wished. She wished so many things, and none of them were possible.

“Wishing doesn’t change anything, Cat,” he’d said sadly. “Wishing only makes people angry and bitter. Don’t become angry and bitter, my love. You deserve more than that.”

My love. Her heart had soared to hear him call her that even as it broke to know she wouldn’t hear him call her anything again for a very long time, if ever. “Be happy, Ned. I hate that I’ve hurt you so.”

“You’ve done nothing to me, my lady. You have a life here. A . . . husband. I have a king who requests my service. We both know where our duty lies.”

 _My lady._ She had liked it better when he called her ‘my love.’ “Our duty,” she’d echoed dully. “Yes. We always do our duty, don’t we?”

He hadn’t spoken, and after a moment, she’d broken the silence. “Would you like me to wake Arya?”

“No. I . . . no. It’s better that she sleeps.” He’d moved to look down at her in her cot. “She’s grown so much.”

Catelyn had smiled. “She’s getting too big to stay in here. I plan to put her in with Sansa soon. The girls can share a room until they’re older so they can be company for each other as Robb and Jon are.” She’d laughed then. “Although I fear they may not get along quite as well as the boys do. I know she’s barely two, but your daughter is rather willful, my love.”

His head had snapped up from looking at the sleeping child at the word daughter, and he’d swallowed and closed his eyes when she’d called him her love. “She cannot be my daughter, Catelyn. No more than I can be your love.”

“But she is. And you are. And even if those two things are never spoken again, they remain true.”

“I cannot stay here,” he’d said in a voice that sounded almost strangled.

“I know,” she’d replied just as she had when he’d first entered the room.

“But I can barely muster the strength to leave. I intend to go before it’s truly light. I’ve already said goodbye to Jon. I’ve promised him he can come to King’s Landing in a year if he wants. He’ll be a little bit older than I was when I was sent to the Eyrie, and I’m certain I can find a good place for him where he can learn a trade or even squire for someone perhaps. The Lannister woman would never allow him at court, but I could see him often.”

“He’ll miss you until then.”

“And he’ll miss you once he leaves here. I won’t make him come south, Cat. If he doesn’t want to come . . .”

“Jon is always welcome here. But he’ll want to come to you, Ned. He’s your son. He loves you. It’s bad enough that you must leave your . . .”

“Don’t,” he’d said, almost harshly. “Don’t say it. Try not to even think it, Cat. It’s better for everyone that way.”

“It isn’t better for you,” she’d whispered.

“Just love her well, Cat. And know that . . .” He’d closed his mouth tightly and stopped speaking again.

“I know, Ned. I understand.” She hadn’t been able to prevent the tears from falling down her cheeks then, and she’d hated her weakness. He’d deserved more strength from her.

“I don’t want . . . please don’t try to wake and see me off. I’m leaving before dawn intentionally. It’s difficult enough to ride away from you if I cannot see you. If you are there . . .”

“I understand. So this is goodbye.”

“Yes, my lady. This is goodbye.”

He’d left without ever touching her. And as much as she’d hated it, he’d been right to do so. If he’d so much as reached out to touch her hand or a strand of her hair, she’d have fallen into his arms and begged him not to go. And they’d both known he had to go.

So now she sat staring into the mirror above her dressing table contemplating his return. With him gone, she had allowed herself to accept her relationship with her husband more easily. While things still were not always easy between Brandon and herself, and the bastard in the nursery was a continuing source of discord, the two of them had reached a level of comfort with each other they had not shared for a long time. The love she bore Ned had not diminished in the slightest, but without his physical presence, she found she could enjoy Brandon’s company without immediately experiencing that crushing guilt which had colored their every interaction before. Even the time they spent together in her bed was less mentally traumatizing now, although sometimes as Brandon lips moved over her body or his cock moved inside her, she found herself imagining he was Ned. That did leave her feeling guilty and ashamed, and now she couldn’t even decide which brother she was betraying the most by such thoughts.

In three days, King Robert Baratheon, a man Catelyn had not seen since her wedding to Brandon at Riverrun and now the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, would arrive at Winterfell for some as of yet unknown purpose. In three days, Lord Rodrik Ryswell, a man Catelyn hated with every fiber of her being and who wanted his bastard grandchild to have everything that belonged to her son Robb, would arrive at Winterfell with the king for a purpose that was all too clear.

Yet, in spite of those rather significant concerns, what troubled Catelyn Stark the most at this precise moment was whether or not a bruise on her neck would fade enough that Ned wouldn’t have to see it. She forced herself to concentrate on brushing the rest of the tangles from her hair and steadfastly refused to think about how Ned might react to the news she had thus far kept to herself. She had only missed one moonblood, but her next was due within a day or two, and if it did not arrive, she would tell Brandon what she already knew to be true in her heart. She was with child again. As if she and Brandon hadn’t thoroughly destroyed his life already, in three days, Ned Stark would arrive home once again to find the woman he loved carrying his brother’s child.

She slept not at all that night which likely caused her to react even more negatively to Vayon Poole’s inquiry the next morning than she normally would have. He’d approached Brandon in the Great Hall as they broke their fasts and asked if they could go over just a few more items about the royal party’s arrival. Brandon, seeming as out of sorts as she felt, had exclaimed that he couldn’t imagine anything they’d not covered the previous night and that any questions about hosting their guests should be posed to Catelyn in any event. He’d then stated emphatically that he had things to do and excused himself from the Hall.

Sighing, Catelyn invited the steward to sit down beside her and first go over what he and Brandon had decided about housing the extra guests in their discussions the previous night. She approved of their plans for room assignments and was glad to hear that Vayon had already confirmed the castle was provisioned well enough to feed the additional men without much difficulty. She did have a few concerns about how well some specific menu items they’d originally chosen for the welcome feast and other meals would work, and she gave the steward some specific questions to bring to the cooks about it.

He took careful note of all she said, responding only with a respectful, “Yes, my lady,” and then he sat there somewhat awkwardly.

“Well?” she asked him. “Did you have any specific questions you wished to ask? You told my lord husband you needed to go over some items, and I’m afraid I’ve simply peppered you with my own questions.”

“Oh . . . .” The man looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Well, it’s only that . . . well, Lord Stark wants the household lined up formally to meet His Grace in the courtyard upon his arrival, and we talked about placement of the family and the more important retainers and . . .”

“Yes, Vayon?” Catelyn urged him as he hesitated again.

“Lord Stark, he . . . well, he didn’t say precisely where he wanted Rickard,” Vayon said hesitantly.

“Rickard? Are we even certain which of Lord Ryswell’s sons accompany him? I hardly think it matters as the rooms we’ve designated for the Ryswell party include several which would be suitable for any of his sons. Roose is a quite a bit younger the other two, but still old enough to warrant his own rooms, I think. As for Rickard . . .”

“Lady Stark,” Vayon interrupted hesitantly. “I don’t mean Rickard Ryswell. Lord Stark directed that I should have Rickard Snow brought out for the welcome, and he didn’t say precisely where. Will young Jon be placed in the second row? And should I put Rickard and his nurse beside him or . . .”

“Should you do what?” Catelyn nearly shrieked. Belatedly, she remembered they were not alone in the Great Hall as Sansa said, “Mother?” in a distressed little voice, and Robb and Jon looked up at her from where they were sitting with the Greyjoy boy. No doubt others were looking at her as well, and Catelyn attempted to smile reassuringly at her daughter before turning back to the steward with as much dignity as she could muster. “Rickard Snow will not be paraded out to welcome the king, Vayon,” she said in a voice scarcely above a whisper, but as hard as stone.

“But Lord Stark . . .”

“I shall speak with Lord Stark,” she said, rising from her seat. Turning toward her five year old daughter, she made her voice bright. “Are you finished, sweetling?”

“Yes, Mother,” Sansa said quietly, looking down. She wasn’t fooled by her mother’s false cheerfulness, Catelyn realized. 

“Let me collect Arya, and I’ll walk the two of you back to the Great Keep, all right?” she said to her daughter, trying desperately to sound calm and reassuring. 

“Yes, Mother,” Sansa said, looking back up at her. She still appeared a bit confused and worried, but Sansa was ever an obedient child. “Shall I get the boys?”

“No, sweetling. Maester Luwin will be taking Robb, Jon, and Theon for lessons.” She smiled at her daughter. In spite of her anger with Brandon at the moment, her little girl’s obvious concern for her and desire to be of some help did warm her heart. “Come with me to the kitchens to find your sister and perhaps we might even find a bite of lemoncake there.”

That brought a genuine smile to Sansa’s face, and with an admonishment to the boys to finish their meal and go directly to the maester’s turret, Catelyn took Sansa by the hand and led her from the Great Hall. Arya, at just past two-and-a-half, was never one to sit long at meals, eating however much she wanted rather quickly and then endeavoring to escape from her chair to wander off and pester anyone she could find. Fortunately, no one seemed to mind having her underfoot, and this morning one of the cooks had happily volunteered her own daughter to play with her in the kitchens so that Catelyn might eat in peace. That undoubtedly would result in the child being fed any manner of things she didn’t need but, exhausted and worried about far too many things, Catelyn hadn’t had the strength to argue this morning.

By the time she’d retrieved a rather grubby Arya, allowed Sansa the promised lemoncake, and left both girls in the nursery where Old Nan and the wetnurse were already watching over Bran and the little bastard, Catelyn’s irritation with Brandon had multiplied. She kept hearing Vayon’s words in her head. _Lord Stark directed that I should have Rickard Snow brought out for the welcome._ And the sight of Rickard Snow, sitting on the floor with Bran, grabbing at some toy Bran held while the stupid wetnurse laughed about it had nearly caused her to scream. She’d only refrained from shouting at the stupid woman because she had no wish to frighten her children. She would tell Brandon the woman was no longer needed, however. She hadn’t fed Bran since Catelyn had recovered from his birth because Catelyn preferred to feed her own children, and she refused to allow her son to share a nurse with the bastard in any event. And the bastard was over a year of age. He could be weaned. He needn’t remain on the teat simply because she continued to nurse Bran. He wasn’t entitled to everything that Bran had. He wasn’t entitled to anything Bran had.

The door to Brandon’s solar was open, and Catelyn found her husband there looking over a ledger on his desk. She walked directly up to that desk and said, “I need to speak with you, my lord.”

Brandon looked up slowly. “What is it, my lady?” he asked rather tiredly.

“Vayon asked me where he should place your bastard when we gather in the courtyard to welcome our king to Winterfell.” She didn’t even try to conceal the venom in her voice.

Brandon scowled. “He should not have done that,” he said.

“Whyever not? You did tell him to direct all his questions to me, my lord. So I answered him. I told him the bastard would not be paraded out to greet King Robert at all.”

Brandon sighed heavily. “Catelyn . . .” he began. 

“Don’t. Don’t attempt to explain to me why this is necessary. It isn’t. The child is a bastard, plain and simple. He has no place among your family, no place greeting the king.”

“Rodrik Ryswell will want to see him there.”

“Rodrik Ryswell wants to see him legitimized. Do you intend to grant him that desire as well?”

“Dammit, Catelyn, you know that I will not ask it of Robert! I have told you as much. More than once.” Brandon’s voice now had an edge of anger to it in addition to irritation.

“Yes,” she replied, forcing her own voice to remain calm. “But what if he asks it of you, my lord? What if Lord Ryswell has bent the king’s ear with tales of the boy’s plight and his mother’s tragedy all the way from Moat Cailin? And then good King Robert rides into Winterfell to see the little bastard lined up to be presented to him among your trueborn children. Does it not occur to you, my lord, that such a welcome might encourage him to at least ask you what you wish?”

“I . . . I did not intend to have Rickard with our children, Cat. Behind them, perhaps. Or . . .”

“It matters little, Brandon, where you put the child! Lord Ryswell will go to him at once. He’ll make certain that Robert sees him there. And then how will you answer Robert’s question, my lord—should he ask about your own desires for Rickard Snow?” She could hear the venom in her voice when she said the child’s name, and she knew Brandon could as well.

“I do not want him legitimized, dammit! You know I don’t!”

“I know it,” she said softly. “But how will you answer your king? Will you simply remain silent less you offend Lord Ryswell and allow Ned to bear the responsibility for staying Robert’s hand in this? Or will you stand up for your own children, Brandon?”

“They are all my children!” Brandon said, his raised voice very nearly a shout now as he got to his feet. “I owe Rickard some kind of life, Cat. Not a name, not a title . . . but . . . something. He’s as much my son as Robb or young Brandon, even if he isn’t yours.”

His words struck her like cold water. She knew he cared for the child. He spent little time with him as Brandon was not a man who had much patience for small children, but he spent as much time with him as he did with Bran. And he delighted in the way the boy seemed to take after him in both appearance and temperament. She’d heard the older servants remark upon it frequently enough, with fond smiles and affectionate laughter. And she hated that. 

“A Snow is not a Stark, my lord,” she said softly. “However much he resembles one. We shall feed and clothe your bastard. And house him here as we must. But we shall not formally present that bastard to the king.”

Brandon stared at her silently for a moment, and then his face took on an almost calculating expression. “So you would have me keep Jon hidden away as well then?”

The question shocked her. “What does Jon have to do with it?”

“He’s a bastard, my lady,” Brandon exclaimed. “Or had you forgotten that? I’ve never heard you speak of him as something shameful or dangerous. Yet he’s a bastard same as Rickard. Have you told him he is to remain in the Keep when the royal party arrives?”

“Of course not!” Catelyn said quickly. “His father is coming, Brandon. He hasn’t seen his father in over half a year! How could we ask him to . . .”

“Rickard’s grandfather is coming.”

“Rickard doesn’t even know the man!” Catelyn realized she had raised her voice nearly to shouting then. “He’s seen but one name day and won’t care at all that he isn’t dragged out to the courtyard. But Jon . . .”

“Might as well learn now what it means to be a bastard,” Brandon said coldly. It chilled her because she knew Brandon loved their nephew. He’d always loved Jon. “Ned will never ask to have him legitimized, you know. He can’t. Even if he never weds and has his trueborn sons, he cannot ask to give Jon his name while we refuse to consider it for Rickard. Do you understand that? So when you’re treating Ned’s boy as if he’s one of our children, my lady, remember there is no difference between him and my bastard son. The world will teach him that even if you don’t.”

There was truth in Brandon’s words even if she didn’t want to hear it. She loved Jon. She loved him for Ned’s sake and for himself, and nothing would ever change that. But he was a bastard. And Brandon was right—this mess with the Ryswells would make it impossible for Ned to ever change that. “He is a bastard,” she whispered. “But his father betrayed no wife. Nor does his existence threaten the trueborn heirs of Winterfell. You are guilty of those things, my lord. Not your brother.” The thought of Ned’s other child, the girl who would forever be known as a trueborn daughter of the Lord of Winterfell gave lie to those words, but Catelyn steadfastly told herself that Arya’s true parentage was no threat to their sons—to Brandon’s line. Only she and Ned knew the truth, and they would go to their graves without speaking it. And Arya would never inherit—not with two brothers and an older sister already. 

“Ah, my honorable lady wife—ever the tireless defender of my brother.” Brandon shook his head. “You needn’t defend him to me, Cat. I know his worth. But I wonder . . . would you be so quick to defend me to him?”

Her heart skipped a beat at the question. He’d never once asked her anything about Ned in comparison to himself. He didn’t suspect her feelings for his brother. She knew he didn’t. She’d kept them buried as deeply as she could, and Brandon was hardly the most observant of men when it came to people’s feelings. But this question hit far too close to home. “Yes,” she said simply, knowing it to be part lie and part truth. Ned was the only person she’d ever spoken to honestly about her anger with Brandon, but she had also insisted upon defending her husband to him often, even when it angered him. That was her duty, after all. She was an unfaithful wife, deserving of whatever judgment the gods gave her. But regardless of her inability to truly repent of that act, she would give Brandon her loyalty. She owed him that.

Brandon looked at her a long moment. “You would, wouldn’t you?” he said softly after a moment. “You’d happily skewer me over this, but you wouldn’t allow anyone else to do so. Not even Ned.” He shook his head again. “He has told me on more than one occasion I don’t deserve you, you know.”

“He should not say such things.”

Brandon shrugged and sat back down. “He’s my brother. He thinks that entitles him to say what he likes at times. Sit down, Cat.”

Warily, still unsettled by this entire conversation, Catelyn sat in a chair across the desk from her husband.

“Rickard will be out in the courtyard to meet the royal party. I cannot have Jon there and not him.” He held up his hands to keep her from speaking. “You’ve shared your concerns about this, and I’ve heard them, but I believe keeping him away would be worse. I’ll not have old Ryswell telling people I treat Ned’s bastard better than my own son. I don’t want to keep Jon from greeting his father any more than you do, but if one of them is there, they both are there, my lady. And you’ll have to mind how you treat Jon for the duration of this visit—from now on, really. I realize I have no right to ask it of you, but if you wish to keep showering Ned’s bastard with open affection, you’re going to have to swallow your hatred for mine. Or at least mask it better. I wronged you, Catelyn, and I understand your feelings about Rickard’s presence here, I do. But however you choose to treat one Bastard of Winterfell, the same must apply to the other. Do you understand me?”

What he asked her was impossible. She could barely stand to look at Rickard Snow. And Jon . . . Jon was Ned’s son—the son she had promised him she would care for. But the expression on her husband’s face told her plainly enough that he considered this conversation over and would accept only one response from her. So she gave it. “Yes, my lord.”

“I thought Jon could stand behind us,” he said. “With the Greyjoy boy. And Rickard’s nurse can stand with them to hold him.”

She didn’t respond. He hadn’t asked for her approval—simply told her how it was to be. 

“Shall you want someone to hold Brandon?” he asked her then. “So that you can more easily . . .”

“I will hold my son, my lord,” she interrupted him coldly. 

He sighed. “I told you I would protect our children, my lady. Robb is my heir. And until he weds and has children of his own, young Brandon is his heir. Rodrick Ryswell, and more importantly, King Robert, will see that all children with Stark blood are treated well here, but no bastard—not mine or Ned’s will have what belongs to our trueborn heirs. I promise you they are no threat to your sons.”

“Jon has never . . .” Before she could finish her reflexive retort that Jon was no threat to anyone, a small intake of breath from the direction of the door caught her attention.

Turning, she saw Jon himself standing in the doorway, looking very small as he stared back and forth between Brandon and herself with Ned’s grey eyes.

“Jon!” she said, wondering why he was there, how much he had heard, and why the hell she hadn’t closed the door when she came in.

“What do you need, lad?” Brandon asked, rather more gruffly than usual.

“I . . . Maester Luwin sent me, my lord. A raven came from Castle Cerwyn.”

“Did you bring the letter?” Brandon asked, reaching out his hand. 

Jon nodded, looked briefly toward Catelyn and then hesitantly walked into the room, holding out a roll of parchment to Brandon. “It’s from my father,” he said. “I recognize his hand on the address.”

Brandon grabbed the parchment for him and quickly opened the seal. It wasn’t the direwolf of Stark, but Catelyn knew that hand as well as Jon did. Ned had definitely sent this missive, penning it himself. Cerwyn was scarcely s day’s ride—a good rider could do it in half a day with a fast horse. She wondered what he had felt compelled to send ahead in a letter that couldn’t wait until he arrived here himself.

She watched Brandon frown as he began reading. Jon stood beside her as still as a statue, and both of them remained silent.

After a moment, Brandon looked up, seeming almost surprised to still see them there. “Catelyn, find Ser Rodrik and Vayon Poole and bring them here. Jon, go back to the maester’s turret and tell Maester Luwin I need him as well. You boys can work on whatever lessons he’s set you on your own for a bit.”

Jon looked down. Catelyn knew he wanted to hear the contents of Ned’s letter, but it was plain enough Brandon didn’t intend to speak of it now, so she stood up and took him by the hand. “Come on, Jon,” she said softly.

“Yes, my lady,” he mumbled. 

Catelyn wanted very badly to know what Ned had written, but while a part of her was desperate to find the steward and castellan as quickly as possible so she could return to Brandon’s solar, a larger part of her caused her to stop and turn toward the little boy who held her hand.

“How much did you hear of what your uncle and I said?” she asked him.

“I didn’t mean to listen, my lady,” he said, still looking down.

“Of course, you didn’t,” she assured him. “You could hardly help but hear, considering the door was open, and I know as well as you how little your uncle likes to be interrupted.” She paused, biting her lip. “Look at me, Jon,” she said softly, putting her hand beneath his chin to tilt it up.

The grey eyes that looked toward hers were troubled. “I . . . I can stay in my room if you want me to,” he said earnestly. “When the king’s party comes, I mean. Father will come see me when he can and . . .”

“Absolutely not,” she said emphatically. “You listen to me, Jon. Whatever you heard just now between your uncle and myself . . . it wasn’t really about you. I know we spoke of you, but we were really discussing . . .”

“Rickard. I know.” He swallowed. “You don’t like him because he’s a bastard . . . like me.”

 _Oh gods!_ Catelyn felt her heart break at the words and the expression on the child’s solemn face. How could she possibly explain this? “No, Jon. That’s not precisely true. I mean . . . yes, you are your father’s natural born son. Your parents were never married. But your father had no wife or trueborn children when he knew your mother. I do not know who she was, but I’ve no doubt he would have done right by her if she’d lived.” In truth, she knew nothing at all of Jon’s mother. Ned would never speak of the woman, not even to her. It was possible she had been lowborn and no marriage would ever have been possible, but Ned would have done what he could for her. She knew that.

“But I’m still a bastard, just like Rickard,” he said. “Why do you like me and not him?” Before she could come up with an answer for that, he added in a voice that trembled slightly, “You do still like me, don’t you Aunt Cat?”

At that, she let out a sound that was nearly a sob and pulled him against her to hug him tightly. “I love you, Jon. And don’t you ever doubt that.” She held him there a moment and then stood back from enough that he could look up at her face again. “With Brandon’s . . . with Rickard . . . it’s more complicated. Your uncle lay with his mother in spite of already having a wife and trueborn children. Do you understand that?”

Jon nodded solemnly. “So he dishonored you and my cousins instead of just himself like my father did.”

Again, Catelyn felt her heart twist as she realized Jon believed his existence dishonored Ned. But she couldn’t in good conscience contradict him. Ned would say the same, and as Brandon had said earlier, Jon would learn what it meant to be a bastard whether she wished him to or not. “That is right, Jon. What’s more, your uncle is the Lord of Winterfell which makes his trueborn children the heirs to Winterfell, starting with Robb.”

“Bastards can’t be heirs,” Jon said, again proving that he knew more about his station in life already than Catelyn would have liked.

“No. But some bastards have tried to be. There have been wars fought for the sake of bastards trying to take what wasn’t rightfully theirs. And your uncle and I fear that the Ryswells might seek to use the bas . . . Rickard in such a way. We must make it clear to everyone that will never be allowed to occur.”

Jon was silent. She could see him thinking as she looked at those grey eyes. He was so like his father—often slow to speak, but only because he wished to consider his words before he uttered them. He was almost exactly one moon younger than Robb, but his serious nature often made him seem the older of the two. “But Uncle Brandon likes Rickard anyway,” he said finally, speaking very slowly. “And you don’t. Why not, Aunt Cat? He’s just a baby. And he’s mostly good except for grabbing things away from people. It’s not his fault Lord Ryswell wants what isn’t his.”

Catelyn sighed, wishing that Jon’s words weren’t true. Of course, the child wasn’t to blame for Ryswell’s greed and ambition any more than he was to blame for his father’s lust and faithlessness. But his innocence did not make him any less of a threat. He would not always be a babe, and no one could know what his desires would be when he came to manhood. “I don’t dislike the child, Jon,” she said finally, honestly not knowing whether that was true or not. She hated so much about the child’s presence here—about his very existence—that she didn’t know at what point that might translate into hatred of the child himself. She didn’t want to hate a child. She had committed sins enough without adding that one. “I simply cannot allow myself to forget that he could grow to be a threat to all of us.”

“But Uncle Brandon said that about both of us. Me and Rickard, I mean. He said . . .”

“He didn’t mean it, Jon!” she said in exasperation. “He only wanted me to do as he wished concerning Rickard Snow.” She took a deep breath and kissed the top of his forehead. “Your uncle loves you. I love you. Sometimes people say things they don’t mean, and sometimes people, even husbands and wives, have disagreements. And during disagreements, people often say things they shouldn’t. I’m sorry you heard us, Jon, but it isn’t anything for you to worry about. Truly.”

He stood there silently.

“Do you believe me?” she asked him.

He nodded slowly, but she could see the doubt still in his eyes. She supposed she couldn’t do anything about it at the moment. 

“Well, run and send the maester to your uncle then, and I’ll find the others he asked for.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said formally. As she turned to go, he called her back, though. “Aunt Cat?” When she turned around to face him again, he said, “I don’t think you have to worry about Rickard, though. I think he loves us already. I know he loves Bran, even if he does try to boss him. He doesn’t sleep at all when Bran’s not there. And I know he loves Sansa because she sings to him—all the same songs you sing to us. And . . . you don’t hurt people you love. Not on purpose.”

The honesty and innocence in his grey eyes brought tears to her own, and his last three words were like a knife in her heart as she thought of the man who’d given him those grey eyes. She loved him with every fiber of her being, and she did nothing but hurt him. “No, Jon,” she said very softly. “Not on purpose.” 

It was a full two days later when Catelyn stood in the courtyard at Winterfell, a calm and content Bran in her arms and a rather wild Arya alternately tugging on her skirts and then attempting to bolt out of line entirely. At Catelyn’s request, Robb held tightly to his little sister’s hand which was the only reason she hadn’t succeeded in escaping since Catelyn’s own arms were occupied with Bran. As good as her youngest babe was, he was getting too large to hold on one hip with one arm for too terribly long, and so she constantly had to shift him around. When Arya had begun to wail because Robb would not let her go, Brandon had actually reprimanded her rather forcefully—his uncharacteristic rebuke of the child giving evidence to his uneasiness. While tears had formed in Arya’s grey eyes when he nearly shouted her name, she had at least quieted if not stilled. She would likely be more amenable to holding Jon’s hand than Robb’s as her cousin was her favorite person in all the world, but Jon stood well behind them, beside Rickard Snow in his wet nurse’s arms. Catelyn preferred not to think too hard on that.

Her children looked wonderful, and she was proud of them. Even Arya was remarkably clean and tidy as Catelyn had scarcely let the child out of her lap, much less her sight once the royal party’s imminent arrival had been announced. Robb stood beside his father, looking every bit a little lord. And while he certainly owed his auburn curls and bright blue eyes to her, the fierce expression on his face as he glowered at little Arya any time she attempted to jerk her hand away from his was entirely Brandon’s, and Catelyn had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at it. Arya stood—or jumped around—between Robb and herself, and Sansa stood on her other side, looking far more lady-like than any five year old ever should. But while her daughter stood still and straight, Catelyn could see her blue eyes dancing as the first of the horsemen rode through Winterfell’s gates.

They must have come at a very leisurely pace from Cerwyn or else stayed there more than one night. She recalled Robert having a fondness for both women and wine. Mayhap he had found one or both of those in Lord Medger’s castle. Yet here they were now, and Catelyn felt a sense of unease and even dread at their arrival—no doubt due in part to the presence of the bastard behind her and his grandfather among the riders coming in and also in part to the words Ned had written. Most worrisome of all were the words he hadn’t written. Even Brandon had felt something had been held back in that letter, so Catelyn knew she hadn’t imagined it. She needed to speak with him. She had many entirely legitimate reasons for wishing devoutly to converse with him, but as her eyes scanned the men in the front, searching for his face, she knew well enough why her heart had sped up. And it had nothing to do with her need for information.

She spotted Robert first. The black-haired man was so much bigger than his companions, he was easy to identify even on horseback. Catelyn thought he looked thicker than he had when she’d last seen him at her wedding. Then her breath caught, and she gave Robert not another thought for riding at his side was Ned. He looked no different than he had when he’d told her farewell last in Winterfell’s nursery. And he looked no happier. She felt it when his eyes met hers, and she prayed that the shiver that ran through her body was not visible. The day was fair, and even she could not claim to be cold.

“Your Grace!” Brandon called out as Robert, Ned, and a few other men dismounted to approach them. “Winterfell is yours!”

Her husband dropped to one knee, and Catelyn carefully balanced Bran in her arms and somewhat awkwardly knelt as well. Arya squealed as Robb more or less pulled her down beside him, and Sansa knelt gracefully. Behind them, all of their household knelt as well.

Robert strode directly to Brandon. “Brandon!” he enthused. “Get up! Get up, man! I’ll not stand on ceremony with one of my oldest friends!” He pulled Brandon to his feet, and Catelyn was startled to see once more just how tall Robert Baratheon was. Her husband was a very tall man. He had several inches over Ned and was taller than nearly every man in Winterfell, but the king had as many inches over him as he had over Ned, and Catelyn thought that in all of Winterfell, only Hodor, the giant boy who worked in the stables might be taller. She had been right about his girth as well. While he certainly could not be described as obese, Robert was a good bit broader around the middle than he’d been nearly a decade ago.

Robert had pulled Brandon into an embrace and then released him to shout out, “Rise! Rise, everyone! Your king is grateful for your welcome!”

“Sansa,” Catelyn whispered, realizing that she couldn’t rise while holding Bran. “I’m going to set your little brother down here, and you . . .”

“I’ve got him, my lady.” Suddenly, Bran was being lifted from her arms, and she looked up to see the grey eyes that continually appeared in her dreams looking down at her. “Let me help you, my lady,” he said, easily swinging Bran into one arm and holding his hand out to her to assist her in rising.

“Thank you, my lord,” she whispered, hoping that no one other than him heard the tremor in her voice.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Uncle Ned,” Sansa said sweetly, smiling up at him.

“Thank you, my little lady,” he replied, letting go of Catelyn’s hand to touch the little girl’s face. “You have grown taller and even prettier, sweet Sansa!”

Sansa’s smile widened as she thanked him. 

“Unca Ned?” Arya piped up from half behind Catelyn. She was staring up at the man speaking with her mother and sister as if wondering who he was. Robb had dropped her hand as Robert was now addressing him, and he was standing as tall as he possibly could beside his father and the king.

“Hello, little wolf,” Ned said, turning to Arya. “You have grown even more than your sister, I think!” Catelyn saw the slight tightening of his jaw and heard the tiny strain in his voice as he fought to control his emotions, but she knew no one else would see it. When the child ducked completely behind Catelyn, his face darkened slightly. “I did not truly think she would remember me,” he said, but she heard his disappointment.

“She was scarcely past her second nameday when you left, my lord,” Catelyn said softly, “And now she’s closer to three than two.” She bent and picked up her daughter. Ned’s daughter. “This is your Uncle Ned, Arya. Can you bid him welcome as Sansa did?”

“Unca Ned?” she asked again. “Unca Ned got Bwan?”

“Yes, sweetling,” Catelyn laughed. “Your uncle has hold of your brother.”

“Who is a good deal heavier than I remember,” Ned said, bouncing the boy and making him laugh.

That decided Arya. Reaching out wildly, she proclaimed, “Unca Ned hold Ah-ya!” Catelyn barely managed to hold onto her as she was bigger and quicker than Bran, but Ned managed to grab her with one arm, holding both children securely for a moment before Catelyn reached out to retrieve Bran.

“Up! Up!” Arya cried then, bouncing in Ned’s arms. As he tossed her into the air once, Robert Baratheon turned toward them, apparently having finished greeting Brandon and Robb.

“Well, that one’s all Stark, “he laughed, looking at the girl in Ned’s arms. “Hopefully, she’ll grow to have Lyanna’s beauty, although now she looks a damn sight more like you, Ned! Poor girl!” He laughed loudly at his own joke, not seeing the way Ned’s face went almost ashen although his expression was stone. 

“She is Arya, Your Grace,” Catelyn said quickly, “our younger daughter. And this,” she said, drawing the king’s attention to Sansa, “is our older daughter, Sansa.”

“Ah!” Robert said, turning to look down at Sansa. “This one most certainly has her mother’s beauty! She’ll grow to break men’s hearts!”

“Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace,” Sansa said sweetly, her cheeks blushing red at the attention she was receiving.

“And charming as well,” Robert said, turning back to Catelyn. “And this is the newest Stark?”

“Yes, Your Grace. This is Brandon. He only recently had his first name day.”

“Brandon, huh? Named him after his father, then.” Robert narrowed his eyes and peered around as if searching for someone. “He’s of an age with Brandon’s other boy, isn’t he? Lord Rodrik’s grandson?”

Catelyn felt as if she’d been slapped. How dare this man—this king whom her father and her husband had helped put on his throne—come into her home and ask her about her husband’s bastard. It occurred to her suddenly that he hadn’t actually greeted her at all. He had come straight to Ned and Arya, and then she had merely introduced him to the children. _Broodmare._ That’s what Roger Ryswell had called her once—Brandon’s southron broodmare.

“Robert,” Ned hissed. “You should not . . .”

“Your Grace!” came a new voice, and Catelyn twirled around to see the Lord of the Rills standing not far behind her. He held up the bastard boy who was squalling loudly, apparently none too pleased to have been taken from his nurse and given to this man he didn’t know. “Here is my boy! Come and see him. He’s got his father’s look for certain!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Catelyn saw Brandon looking none too pleased, but saying nothing. Doing nothing. 

“Robert . . .” Ned said again, but the king was already moving toward the damned man and the crying bastard. Even as she stood frozen in her own distress, Catelyn caught sight of Jon, looking desperately between Ned and Lord Ryswell. He clearly longed to run to his father, but he just as obviously wanted to do nothing wrong.

“Ned,” she said flatly. “Go to your son.”

“Catelyn, I . . .”

“He has waited long enough.” She turned to face him. “I am fine. Give me Arya, and go to your son.”

“You have Bran,” he said softly. “Robb!” he called to the boy who now looked a bit lost as the king had moved away to Lord Ryswell, and his father now stood silently with a brooding expression on his face. “Come and take your sister for me.”

Robb rolled his eyes, obviously tired of being tasked to mind Arya, but he did as Ned asked, and Ned rewarded him with a hand to his shoulder and a comment about how he truly did appear a man grown now. Then he turned and walked toward Jon, calling out his name and holding out his arms before he reached him.

Jon’s solemn face split into a wide grin then, and he launched himself into his father’s arms. They spoke quietly so Catelyn didn’t hear what they said, but she did notice Ned was leading him away from the king rather than toward him. Ned would not shame her by presenting his bastard son to the king beside Catelyn’s trueborn children. She knew it was the proper thing for him to do, and she knew he did it for her. She loved him for it, but still her heart broke a bit for Jon. 

The men who traveled with the king and Lord Ryswell were already being met by members of her household staff. Horses were being seen to, and men were being directed to their quarters. She didn’t see any in chains, though. She looked up to ask Brandon about it, but saw that he had apparently been called to the king’s side while she’d been watching Ned and Jon. He was now in conversation with both Robert Baratheon and Rodrik Ryswell. She noted that Ryswell no longer held the bastard. The child was now being carried back toward the Great Keep by his nurse, still screaming.

She looked around and did see Ser Rodrik Cassel, standing in the midst of several Winterfell soldiers and obviously issuing instructions.

“Robb, take your sisters inside,” Catelyn said.

“But I want to . . .”

“Take the girls inside, Robb. Find Old Nan or someone to sit with them and tell whomever you find to change Arya out of this dress. I’d like her to wear it to the Great Hall this evening and if she plays in it the rest of today, it will be a mess.”

Knowing his baby sister well, Robb grinned at that, in spite of his annoyance at being tasked now with both sisters. “Yes, Mother,” he said, with only the slightest touch of annoyance.

“And then you may find Jon and go to the stables and see all the horses or wherever you wish inside Winterfell.”

The boy’s face lit up.

“But do not venture outside the gates, do you hear me? You are not to leave this castle under any circumstances.”

He looked at her as if he might protest, but simply said, “Yes, Mother,” once more.

“And you and your cousin should probably change your clothes as well if you’re going to roam around out of doors. Else you’ll likely have your good doublets a mess yourselves!”

As Robb led both girls back toward the Great Keep—well, led Sansa and more or less dragged Arya who simply saw too many things in the courtyard that attracted her interest—Catelyn shifted Bran around in her arms and walked to Ser Rodrik.

“Lady Stark,” he said as she approached, bowing respectfully. Given the utter lack of courtesy she’d received from the king and Lord Ryswell, the man’s gesture meant a great deal to her. “What can I do for you, my lady?”

“The prisoners, Ser Rodrik . . . the men bound for the Wall . . . are they secured? I saw no men in chains.”

“Yes, Lady Stark,” he assured her. “We’ve got them in that stockade outside the western wall that we spent the last two days setting up. I told His Grace when I rode out with our men that Lord Stark was pleased that he had answered the needs of the Night’s Watch, but that we couldn’t have such men within the walls of Winterfell. Lord Eddard told him the same, and he said he’d keep men out to guard them until they went on north.”

“The king’s men are guarding them?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Aye,” he said, smiling at her. “And some of our best Winterfell men as well. As I told you and Lord Stark when we got young Ned’s letter, I won’t trust the protection of Winterfell to a bunch of southrons, be they king’s men or no.”

Catelyn smiled at him. “And we are grateful for that, Ser Rodrik.” They’d only had two days to prepare for the arrival of prisoners for the Night’s Watch and had feared they had even less time than when they received Ned’s letter, but all of them had agreed the men should not come within the walls. Winterfell did not have an actual dungeon within, and Catelyn did not want rapers and thieves being housed near her children. Brandon had agreed, and so a temporary stockade had been constructed.

“And there are twenty-three of them?” she asked.

“Yes, my lady. Just as it said in the letter. I only wish Lord Eddard hadn’t waited until he got to Cerwyn to tell us about them. Didn’t give us much time.”

“Well,” Catelyn replied. “Time constraints did not prevent you and your men from rising to the occasion, Ser Rodrik. And we are most grateful.” She wasn’t certain why Ned’s original letter from King’s Landing announcing the king’s visit hadn’t mentioned the prisoners for the Wall either. But as the impending presence of more than twenty criminals in her home wasn’t actually the most distressing information in that letter, she hadn’t given it much thought once plans had been made for containing them. Ser Rodrik and Vayon had been dismissed after that. Brandon had only shared the remainder of Ned’s letter with Maester Luwin and herself. And that information had disturbed her for the same reasons it did Brandon, but also for another reason entirely—one that made her feel selfish and petty and terribly hypocritical. 

She looked around the courtyard again. The chaos which had accompanied the arrival of the royal party had mostly given way to order and there were far fewer men wandering about. She had lost Brandon, the king, and Lord Ryswell entirely. Perhaps Brandon had taken them to his solar. He’d want Ned there as well before anything of substance was discussed. But he’d want a chance to speak to Ned alone first. If she were going to speak to Ned herself, she’d better do so now. 

He and Jon were no longer in the courtyard either, but she knew well enough where Ned would go first upon returning to Winterfell after such a long absence—especially if he were troubled. And she knew he’d be troubled as soon as she’d seen that letter. She spied a chamber maid hurrying across the courtyard, likely sent to fetch something for the men who were staying in the Guest Hall, and she called out to her, bidding her to take Bran to the nursery to join his sisters. She kissed her sweet boy who went to the chambermaid with the same equanimity he always exhibited, and then she hurried toward the godswood.

He was there, of course, standing before the heart tree with his head bowed. Jon was there, too, a small replica of his father, just as silent and still, standing slightly behind him. The child couldn’t possibly know what troubled Ned, but he knew well enough to remain quiet in the godswood when someone prayed. He was far better at it than Robb was. But then Brandon could never remain still very long either, and Robb was his father’s son in many ways for all that he looked like her. That thought recalled to her mind the image of Robert Baratheon walking away from her children—away from Robb, the trueborn heir to Winterfell—to inspect the bastard behind them, and bitter anger rose within her. She forced herself to swallow that, however, and keep her voice calm and steady as she spoke to her goodbrother. 

“Ned?” she said softly from the edge of the clearing around the still pool.

He didn’t speak or even turn around, but Jon did. He looked up at her and then moved around the pool to where she stood as quickly as he could while still maintaining the respectful demeanor due his father’s prayers.

“Father’s praying, Aunt Cat,” he whispered when he reached her. 

She smiled down at him. “I know, sweetling, and I would not disturb him if it were not important,” she whispered back.

Jon looked over at Ned. “He’s been quiet a long time,” he said. “I told him about the new puppies and what Robb and I are learning from Ser Rodrik and how Arya says a lot more words now, and he seemed happy to hear it, but then he said he needed to come to the godswood.” Jon looked down. “I came with him, but he hasn’t said anything since we got here.”

“There is no heart tree in the godswood at King’s Landing,” Catelyn told him. “When your father returns to the North after a long absence, he needs to pray to his gods as he learned from his father.”

Jon nodded and looked toward his silent father once more. The boy was capable of stillness and had more patience than most, but he was still only eight years old. 

Catelyn smiled again. “Why don’t you go to the Great Keep. I’ve told Robb to change out of his good clothes and given permission for you and him to play freely outside as long as you remain together and do not go outside the gates. He’s likely looking for you.”

The child’s face lost its solemn expression then as a smile spread across his face. “Can I, Aunt Cat? I mean . . . should I wait and ask Father or . . .”

“Go, Jon. I have need to speak with your father, and he might remain at his prayers for some time after that. You will see him again this evening, and he won’t begrudge you and your cousin a day spent outdoors with no lessons.”

“Thank you, Aunt Cat,” he said. Then he looked one last time toward Ned, and nodded to her as a grown man would. “My lady,” he said formally, taking his leave before turning to leave the clearing. He made it a good twenty paces at his slow, respectful pace before breaking into a sprint.

A soft chuckle caused her to turn around, and she saw Ned looking at her. “You are so good with him, Cat. Sometimes I fear I don’t know what to say. I stay away too long and come to Winterfell more stranger than parent to him, I fear.”

“You are a good father, Ned,” she said, walking around the pool to approach him. “You’re good with all the children.”

“Arya didn’t truly remember me.”

“No. No more than Sansa truly remembered Brandon when he returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion. She is simply very young, Ned.” She wanted to reach out and touch him, but she knew better. They’d already spoken far too intimately here—no titles, only their names—and speaking of things they would only share with each other. Her heart raced and her eyes moved over his face, seeking to find any small thing that might have touched him or changed him since she’d last looked at him. His eyes moved over her in much the same way. Being alone with him here and not touching him was torture. And the temptation to touch him—to hold him to her—grew with each second of the silence between them after she spoke. 

He obviously felt it too. With what appeared a great effort of will, he visibly straightened himself and sighed deeply. “She is young, my lady. But growing quickly. As all children do. I do thank you for the care you’ve given Jon.”

“It is no more than I promised, my lord. And I would care for him without the promise for his own sake. He is a good boy.” She smiled. “He didn’t want to be disrespectful, but he chastised me for disturbing your prayers.”

“So I heard.” He looked down. “I also heard you tell him that I needed to pray to my gods as I learned from my father.” He looked back up at her with a bit of a scowl on his face. “And how long has it been since you’ve prayed to your gods as you were taught by your father, Cat?”

He had used her name again. Brandon’s refusal to build her a sept had angered Ned. She’d never asked it of her husband, of course. She knew the Northmen did not follow her gods. But Ned had apparently asked him before Bran had ever been born. She only knew because Brandon had come to her, asking if she’d put his brother up to it and telling her that his bannermen would not accept a sept at Winterfell. Ned had been in a black mood for days after that although he never spoke to her of the cause. Gods knew there had been more than enough reason for tension among all of them in those days.

“I keep my gods well enough,” she said softly. “Please don’t say anything more to Brandon about them.”

He raised a brow, not truly surprised that she knew he’d said something to Brandon before, but a bit surprised by her acknowledgement of it. They both were usually so careful to not speak about most anything of substance between them.

“I saw that Brandon got my letter. The stockades outside the wall were a good thought, and quickly done.” he said then, changing the topic. He hesitated only a moment before asking, “Did he share all of my letter with you?”

She could barely look at him as she nodded, although she knew it wasn’t fair. She forced herself to meet his eyes. “So Robert means to make you a prince," she said, hating that her voice trembled slightly in spite of her best efforts to keep it steady.

He scowled once more. “Robert means to use me to further secure his throne, however he thinks is necessary.” He shook his head. “I don’t want this, Cat,” he said then, his own voice sounding ragged. “You have to know I don’t want this.” 

The guilt and pain in his eyes were plain to her, and she hated herself for all the anger and bitter jealousy that had plagued her since she’d read the letter. She was wed to his brother. She had borne his brother’s children and carried another even now. She had no right to demand that Ned spend his life alone. “It would be fine match,” she forced herself to say. She could not quite force herself to keep looking at him, though. “Has Doran Martell agreed? He has refused many offers. My father even spoke to him of a match with Edmure, but . . .”

“No, Doran hasn’t agreed,” Ned nearly shouted. “Doran Martell hasn’t even been approached. I’ve told Robert a thousand times I have no wish to wed, and Jon Arryn has convinced him it isn’t right to simply demand it of me.”

Catelyn did look up at him then. “But . . . your letter . . .” She shook her head. “He’s wanted you to wed Arianne Martell for a long time then?”

Ned snorted. “Arianne Martell is a fairly new idea. And it’s damn Jon Arryn who put it into Robert’s head so it’s only decent that he thinks I shouldn’t be forced into the matter. She’s a girl, Cat! Still a few moons shy of her sixteenth name day, and I’ll be thirty on my next. I doubt she’ll wish to wed me any more than I wish to wed her.” He looked down. “I want to wed no one,” he said in a voice little more than a whisper. “No one except . . .”

“Don’t,” she said, her own voice a ragged whisper. “Don’t even say it.”

He nodded, and then slowly raised his head to look at her once more. “Dorne has never accepted Robert’s rule so much as they’ve consented to not actively oppose it. The deaths of Princess Elia and her children remain as large a point of contention as they ever were. Robert would bind the Martells closer to him if he could.”

“You are not a Baratheon, Ned—however often the man might name you brother. A marriage to you doesn’t give the Martells any hope of a child of their line again sitting on the Iron Throne.”

“Not initially,” he said. “But it gives them House Stark as an ally. With a potential secondary ally in House Tully through Brandon’s marriage to you. And Robert intends to offer a betrothal between his son Joffrey and the first daughter born of this . . . proposed union. So it would make Doran’s granddaughter a queen and put his great-grandson on the Iron Throne someday.”

Ned had looked almost ill at that thought of fathering children on the Princess of Dorne, and Catelyn felt guilty over how much that pleased her.

“With all the offers for his daughter which Doran has refused, Robert thinks a nebulous promise of a royal betrothal to a child not yet conceived will sway him?” Catelyn asked, trying to make herself think about this objectively—about what it meant for Ned and the realm rather than the fact that she would rather die than imagine him wed to the young and reportedly lovely Dornish princess.

Ned frowned. “Jon doesn’t think that promise will appear nebulous at all. Robert’s friendship to me and my fealty to him is well known. Jon says anyone in the Seven Kingdoms would believe the king’s sincerity in wishing to wed his heir to a child of mine.” He shook his head. “And it’s true. Robert was more interested in that part of Jon’s scheme than any other. He knows he’ll have to wed Joffrey to the daughter of a Great House, and I’m a second son without much to offer other than my name. But Arianne Martell is the heir to Dorne in her own right as Doran Martell’s firstborn child so she doesn’t need to wed a High Lord. Jon may speak of alliances and creating stability in the kingdom, but Robert talks of seizing the chance to unite our Houses as should have happened long ago with him and Lyanna.” He shook his head sadly and looked away. “If only he knew.”

“If only he knew what?”

Ned startled and looked back at her. She thought she saw a momentary panic in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly she likely imagined it. “Nothing, really. Only that I doubt he would have found the boundless joy he seems to believe he would have had with my sister. She was no happier about that betrothal than I am about Robert’s plans for me. I don’t know that their marriage would have been what either of them wanted.”

He’d never told her that before. She started to ask him more about it, but he returned to the topic of his own proposed betrothal. “This idea about Dorne was hatched only since I’ve been back in King’s Landing this last time, but I’ve known Robert planned to use me as political leverage at some point. It’s why he refused to legitimize Jon.”

“Legitimize Jon?” she sputtered. Ned had never spoken of such a thing. She’d never known he wanted it.

Ned looked at her sadly. “There is only so much I can give him as a bastard. And as I am not the heir to Winterfell, legitimizing him would not affect the inheritance of your children at all. He could hold his own keep in the North someday and forever have the protection of the Stark name.”

 _Protection?_ That seemed an odd word choice. Protection from what? Bastard or no, Snow or Stark, she knew very well Ned would not allow harm to come to the boy. “I didn’t know you’d ever asked Robert to legitimize him,” she said softly. “When did you . . .”

“When I first left Winterfell to serve the king,” he interrupted abruptly. “But Robert refused. It angered me because I thought he’d do it readily enough for the sake of our friendship. He explained that I was too good a prospect for a politically advantageous marriage and that no one would wish to wed their daughter to a man with a legitimized bastard who bore his name and stood to inherit.” Ned spoke bitterly.

Of course, Robert’s words were true enough. Her own father would never had wed to her to a man who already had a legitimized bastard. No one wanted their trueborn children or grandchildren to come behind a bastard—legitimized or otherwise. It occurred to her that Ned knew that well enough himself. _When I first left Winterfell to serve the king,_ he had said. That had been just after they’d confessed their love to each other and lain together in her chamber. He’d ridden away from Winterfell after that and consciously decided he would never wed. _Oh, my love. What have I done to you?_

She blinked hard to keep tears from falling. “And now he wants Brandon to order you to do this? That’s why he’s here?”

Ned sighed deeply. “He wouldn’t put it that way. He simply wants to explain to Brandon the advantages of this match to House Stark in hopes that he’ll ‘encourage’ me to go forward with it. Of course, he knows full well that Brandon is my liege lord as well as the head of House Stark. If he chooses to command me to wed, I’ve a duty to obey him.”

“Brandon wouldn’t do that,” she said quickly. “He loves you, Ned. Just tell him that you . . .” She stopped speaking because he was shaking his head slowly. “What?” she asked. And then it struck her that he might have begun to consider the advantages of this match himself. However much he loved her, he would never have her and he knew well enough that she shared Brandon’s bed. She had no right to begrudge him a wife and legitimate children of his own—a daughter who wouldn’t call him ‘Unca Ned’ and who might grow to be a queen. “Unless, of course, you want to consider marriage to Dorne,” she said as calmly as possible. “In that case Brandon would . . .”

“I don’t want to marry Arianne Martell or anyone else, Cat! You know that!” He’d reached out to grab her arms as he interrupted her and now they stood mere inches from each other, both breathing too hard. She swore she could hear his heart beating as rapidly as her own.

“I know,” she breathed. Then she closed her eyes tightly because if she kept looking at him, she would kiss him and tell him never to leave her side. Instead, with eyes shut, she whispered, “No more than I want to be married to Brandon.”

He released her instantly at those words as if touching her had burned his hands, and she supposed in a way that it had. She felt like she was on fire. 

“Catelyn,” he said hoarsely, “You cannot say such a thing.”

“I know,” she said. “But it doesn’t make it less true. It matters little, though. I am wed to Brandon, and I have no right to deny you . . .”

“I don’t want to marry Arianne Martell,” he repeated. “But I may not have a choice. Things have gotten a great deal more complicated thanks to Rodrik Ryswell. The man is more devious than I thought.” He shook his head sadly. “And Robert is sometimes less the man I once knew than I would have him be. I fear I am dealing more with the king and less with my friend in this matter now.”

What Rodrik Ryswell had to do with Ned or Dorne, Catelyn couldn’t imagine, but she knew what the man wanted above all else. “Do you mean to tell me Robert Baratheon intends to legitimize Barbrey Dustin’s bastard? He can’t, Ned! He can’t! My children would . . .”

“He won’t, Cat,” Ned said grimly. “I promised you that would never come to pass, my lady. And I intend to keep that promise.

He said it with such certainty. She had to believe him. Yet, his expression made her fear that keeping his promise would cost him something, and she couldn’t understand why it should. “Brandon doesn’t want the bastard legitimized either, Ned. Whatever Rodrik Ryswell has been spewing in Robert’s ear, Brandon will tell him that. Surely, the king wouldn’t attempt to force the child’s legitimization upon Brandon! What purpose would that serve? Rodrik Ryswell holds no importance to Robert! Why is he even here? And when did you know he was coming?”

He shook his head once more. “I knew he was coming when I saw his banners at Moat Cailin. I knew the prisoners for the Night’s Watch were coming when we collected them at Darry. I fear Robert told me nothing about the gifts he planned to woo Brandon with. Likely, he thought I might refuse to come.” He shook his head. “He means to promise Brandon more men for the Night’s Watch for his ‘assistance’ in the matter of my betrothal. He knows our bannermen are concerned about the decreasing numbers in the Watch and the increased numbers of wildlings coming over the Wall. And . . . it seems Lord Rodrik has been in correspondence with the king. Robert’s convinced that Brandon wants to legitimize Rickard.”

Ned always called the bastard by his name. Always. Catelyn knew she had far more pressing concerns at the moment, but it still irritated her. That boy did not deserve Rickard Stark’s name. It was bad enough that he had ‘Rickard.’ To give him ‘Stark’ as well was unconscionable. “But you’ve been with Robert. Surely, you’ve told him that Brandon . . .”

“Of course, I have,” Ned said almost irritably. “But the good Lord of the Rills has led Robert to believe that Brandon has kept his true feelings hidden from me and everyone else. That believing there is no chance of it, he sees no point in upsetting you by requesting it.”

“Upsetting . . . me,” Catelyn repeated dully. For the smallest moment, she wondered if there were truth in that. But she knew there wasn’t. Brandon was many things, but he would not dishonor her or their children in such a manner. And he was no fool. He knew how far Rodrik Ryswell would go to give Winterfell to his bastard grandson. Giving him anything would only encourage him to reach for more. Brandon simply must meet with Robert and tell him in no uncertain terms that no one save Rodrik Ryswell wanted that child to have the Stark name. “Brandon will set him straight. He simply needs to speak with the king and tell him that . . .”

“Robert has seen the letters Brandon sent Ryswell,” Ned interrupted. “You recall how cautious he was—how he wished not to offend the man more than necessary, always speaking as if giving Rickard his name was something he could not do rather than something he would not wish. You and I know he was simply attempting to prevent any more bad blood and relying on me to handle Robert. But whether or not Ryswell realizes that, he’s presented those letters as evidence that Brandon’s true feelings are in sympathy with his. And Robert invited the man to come along with us to Winterfell. He kept it from me, and I suspect he kept it from Jon Arryn as well, but it seems he all but told the man he’d legitimize the boy, and Ryswell has sent out letters to others proclaiming that as the reason for Robert’s visit.”

“Letters,” Catelyn said, feeling her heart drop. “Letters to whom?”

“I don’t know. Lord Karstark, certainly. Lord Bolton, probably. Certainly all the minor lords who answer to House Dustin and House Ryswell. The Dustin men, in particular, are still angry over the fact that Brandon has not named anyone to Lord Willam’s seat since Barbrey’s death.”

“You know why, Ned! There is absolutely no one with a legitimate claim to that seat. House Dustin is no more. Not even any distant relatives. The next most logical choice would be to go to the house of the last lord’s wife and Lord Rodrik has spare sons, but to give the Ryswells _more_ power? He’s doing his best to get a consensus for an appointment that will be well accepted. By everyone other than the Ryswells, that is.”

“Well, he’s taking too long,” Ned snapped. “And he’s been too conciliatory toward Lord Ryswell where Rickard is concerned. If he doesn’t stand up and tell Robert very clearly right away that he doesn’t want this, Brandon’s likely to be presented with a royal decree proclaiming Rickard a Stark before he’s even been asked about it.”

“Oh gods,” Catelyn breathed. “They left the courtyard together. Brandon, Lord Ryswell and the king. I believe they were going to Brandon’s solar.”

“Godsdammit!” Ned exclaimed. “I should have stayed right with Brandon. I should have insisted upon speaking with him alone before anyone else did.” He took a deep breath and looked at her sadly. “But being here once more . . . seeing you . . . seeing Arya . . . and Jon . . .” He closed his eyes. “Gods forgive me! I just had to get away. I had to, Cat!”

She laid a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Ned. I understand,” she said softly. “You are not responsible for everything that happens in this world, my love.”

He smiled sadly and reached out to touch her hair and then her face. She trembled as his fingers made contact with her skin. “My love,” he said softly. “You shall always be that to me, you know. Whatever paths we must follow.” He pulled his hand away from her and squared his shoulders. “But now, my lady, I believe we should make our way to my brother’s solar.”

When they arrived there, they discovered the three men sitting together and laughing, all three with large tankards of ale in their hands. 

“Ned!” Brandon exclaimed, upon seeing his brother. “I wondered where you’d got to. Pour yourself some ale and join us, brother!” Belatedly, he realized Catelyn was there and hurriedly got to his feet. “My lady,” he said, coming to take her hand. “Join us as well, if you wish. I don’t believe Lord Ryswell got a chance to properly greet you in the courtyard.” Her husband’s charming smile never wavered, but Catelyn heard the harsh undertone in his voice. He had noticed Ryswell’s snub of her in favor of pulling Robert’s attention to the bastard after all, and was letting him know about it.

Rodrik Ryswell stood and walked over to her, bowing and taking the hand she still had free. “Lady Stark,” he said. “You are a vision of loveliness. A true blossom of the South.”

She didn’t miss that he meant to call her an outsider. “Why thank you, Lord Ryswell,” she said with exaggerated courtesy. “Although I fear you have me confused with someone else. Someone from House Tyrell, mayhap, as they are the flowers of the South. I was a trout, and have now been a wolf for many years.”

Robert laughed out loud at that. “Well, you’re the prettiest damn wolf I’ve ever seen, Cat!” His use of her nickname irritated her. No one called her ‘Cat’ except family, and this man was not her family even if he was her king. “Except for my dear Lyanna, of course.” A mournful look came over his face then as he lifted his tankard. “It kills me to think of her in those cold, dark crypts of yours, Ned,” he murmured. “She was made to be loved and cared for.” He seemed to speak almost to himself, and recalling what Ned had told her in the godswood, Catelyn almost felt sorry for him. Until he spoke again.

“I can’t get over how much Brandon’s newest boy looks like him,” Robert exclaimed, looking directly at Catelyn, of all people. “Lord Rodrik told me, but I couldn’t imagine it. Although Ned’s bastard looks a lot like him so I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. But, gods, the resemblance! Neither of my boys looks a thing like me. They’ve both got that yellow hair of Cersei’s. As does their sister.”

Catelyn felt the heat in her cheeks, and she didn’t dare speak for fear of what she might say if she did. Brandon seemed rather stunned into silence as well, but Ned spoke from behind them. “Brandon’s newest son looks more like his mother, at least in coloring,” he said quietly, “Although I believe he’s got more the shape of Brandon’s nose and mouth. He’s certainly got his smile. I could see that plainly now that he’s passed his first name day.”

Robert looked confused. “What the devil . . .”

“Young Brandon,” Ned explained patiently. “Brandon’s newest son. Surely, that’s whom you spoke of, Your Grace, as I know you wouldn’t be speaking about my brother’s bastard to his lady wife without so much as an apology.”

“I . . . I . . .” Robert blustered, realizing what he had done. Catelyn rather suspected this wasn’t his first tankard of ale, or even his third. Ned had spoken of the king’s drinking getting worse, but this behavior stunned her. Robert had always been boisterous and fond of attention, but she didn’t remember him being boorish. 

“In any event, if you were speaking of Rickard Snow, little Bran is still my brother’s newest child as he is the younger of the two babes by a matter of several days.” His eyes bored into Robert’s, and Catelyn realized he was trying to impress upon him the potential effect that legitimizing Rickard could have upon Bran’s place in the line of inheritance, and Catelyn could only hope the king was sober enough to grasp it.

Robert stood then and bowed low with a sweep of his arm. Mayhap he wasn’t as drunk as she’d thought as he seemed coordinated enough. “Forgive me, my lady. My behavior is inexcusable. I mean no disrespect to you or your youngest son. I spoke with your oldest for a bit. Fine lad. You and Brandon should be very proud of him.”

“We are,” Brandon said quickly. Catelyn was grateful to him as she still wasn’t certain she could speak. “He will be a fine Lord of Winterfell one day.”

“Indeed,” Robert answered, lifting his drink high in salute to Robb’s future as Lord of Winterfell. “And he’s got a fine name as well,” he added with a grin.

At the moment, Catelyn was cursing the impulse that had compelled her to name her son in honor of this man, and she was grateful that she had at least altered the name somewhat. She turned her head and saw Rodrik Ryswell regarding her with a calculating expression on his face. “Do you have something to say, Lord Ryswell?” she asked, finding her voice at last.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said with false humility. “I realize your lord husband’s behavior toward my poor daughter reflected badly upon you as well as him, but I see no point in our pretending Rickard doesn’t exist.”

Brandon tensed beside her, and Catelyn tightened her grip on his hand to keep him still. “No one here is pretending the boy doesn’t exist, my lord,” she said sweetly. “He shares a nursery with my son.” That seemed to shock the man, and she enjoyed his reaction more than she disliked pretending that she had no objection to the bastard sharing the nursery with Bran. “We did fear you had forgotten him, though. In spite of Brandon’s invitations to you, we haven’t seen you in Winterfell in more than half a year. I was particularly disappointed that you missed his name day.”

If looks could kill, Catelyn realized she would be dead at that moment for Lord Ryswell’s eyes were daggers. It took him a moment to respond. “It has been hard not seeing my grandson,” he said. “Unfortunately, many matters conspired to keep me away. I was very glad of the king’s invitation to join him here.”

Robert spluttered at that, and Catelyn recalled Ned saying he had not expressly admitted to inviting Ryswell along. 

“Well,” Catelyn said. “You are here now, and I was told in the courtyard that your two younger sons came as well. I am certain you are all anxious to spend time with the boy. I can call one of my maids to escort all of you to the nursery, and you can visit with him there before you dress for tonight’s meal.”

“Well . . . I . . .” Ryswell stammered.

“Yes, Rodrik, do go on and spend time with the little fellow,” Robert said, now looking as anxious to get Ryswell out of the room as the three Starks were. “As it happens, I have a matter I need to discuss with Lord Stark.”

“Oh, but I think I should be present for . . .”

“This matter doesn’t concern you,” Robert said bluntly. When Lord Ryswell’s eyes opened more widely, he said, “I have more than one matter to bring before Lord Stark or it would not have been worth the journey from King’s Landing.”

Defeated, Ryswell bowed. “Very well, Your Grace.” He turned to Catelyn. “I would be most happy to accompany you to the nursery, Lady Stark.”

“Oh, I’m not going to the nursery,” Catelyn said. “I shall be staying right here. But I’ll call someone to escort you.” Without another word, she opened the door, and called to one of the servants waiting in the corridor, and Lord Ryswell was whisked away.

She waited in the corridor until the man was out of sight and then turned around to see all three men in the solar staring at her. She said nothing, simply closing the door behind her. Robert finally looked at Brandon as if to ask him what he intended to do about her, but Brandon merely sat back down in his original seat and motioned for her to take the one previously occupied by Lord Ryswell. As Ned pulled a chair over from across the room to sit with them, Robert began to look decidedly uncomfortable.

“I am not certain you need to be here for this conversation, Lady Catelyn,” he finally said.

“Why, Your Grace? We are going to discuss a potential marriage for my goodbrother, are we not? Why would I not be interested in that?”

Robert frowned and looked at Ned. “Did you send a raven from someplace after we left King’s Landing or have you been bending Lady Stark’s ear since our arrival?” he asked.

“I sent my brother a letter from Castle Cerwyn,” Ned said calmly. “I thought he at least deserved a day or two to prepare for a score of criminals being carted to his castle. And I may have mentioned your plans for me.”

Robert shook his head. “Those criminals will be brothers of the Night’s Watch soon enough. And there are more men to be found in the Seven Kingdoms to put on your Wall. I should think Lord Stark would be grateful for them.”

“Oh, I am, Your Grace,” Brandon assured him. “And Lord Commander Mormont will undoubtedly be even more grateful. But my brother was correct in assuming I would wish to prepare for their arrival. They can’t simply be put up in the Great Keep or Guest Hall like the other surprise visitors who arrived with you.”

Robert harrumphed. “Lord Ryswell joined us just past Moat Cailin. He wanted to visit his grandson and it made sense for us to travel together.” Robert made no mention of Ryswell’s assertion that he had expressly invited the man to come along, and the Stark men chose not to call him on it, simply waiting to hear what he would say next. After a pause, he said, “Well, you’ve obviously heard from Ned and shared with your wife the betrothal I would have him make. What are your thoughts?”

“I’d like to hear Ned’s thoughts,” Brandon said simply. “His letter was not lengthy. It simply informed us that you were coming to seek my approval on a match between my brother and Princess Arianne Martell, the heir to Dorne. How old is the girl anyway?”

“Sixteen,” Robert said.

“She will be in a few moons,” Ned corrected quietly.

“And Doran Martell is in favor of this match?” Brandon asked.

“Doran Martell knows nothing of it,” Ned stated emphatically. “And as he seems to be hellbent on turning down every good match offered for the girl, I see no reason he’d say yes to this one. Even if I did agree.”

“Ah,” Brandon said. “You don’t want to marry Dorne then. It was miserably hot there, as I recall.” He turned to Robert. “We were there once, Ned and I. We didn’t like it much.”

There was a brief silence as all four people in the room reflected upon precisely when and why the Stark brothers had been in Dorne. Catelyn had never even met Lyanna Stark, but her presence weighed heavily in the room just then.

“That had nothing to do with the climate,” Robert said finally. “And whatever the climate, I’ve seen the Martell girl. She’s a beauty, Ned. Tiny little thing in terms of height, but with full, round hips, and breasts ripe and round already for all that she’s but sixteen. And of course, she’s got that smooth, bronze skin and big dark eyes that all the Martells have, and I swear she has even more hair than Lady Stark there—and it’s black as night and falls all down her back. And being Dornish, I imagine her blood’s as hot as the sun down there. You won’t suffer in her bedchamber, that’s for certain!”

Catelyn tried and failed to keep an image of Ned moving his hands over the naked form of this beautiful young Dornish girl as he’d once moved them over her own body, and she clasped her hands tightly together to keep them from shaking.

“Really, Robert! The Princess of Dorne should not be discussed as if she’s a brothel girl, and you might have a care how you speak in front of my brother’s lady wife,” Ned protested.

“Oh, for the gods’ sake, Ned! You can’t live a septon all your life. You people don’t even have damned septons up here! And Lady Stark is a married woman. I think she’ll hardly faint at the notion of a marriage bed.”

“We get your point, Your Grace,” Brandon interjected. “The girl is beautiful. That’s all good and well, but what else does this match bring to Ned, to House Stark, and to you. I cannot imagine your pushing for it if you don’t derive some benefit from it.”

“Ha! You see, Ned? I told you Brandon would see the sense in this!” Robert exclaimed. Turning to Brandon, he said, “Your brother never even bothered to ask those questions. He simply declared he doesn’t wish to be wed. Doesn’t wish to be wed! Ha! For myself, I get Dorne tied to House Stark—the one House in all the realm I consider most loyal and dependable. And I get them tied to my own throne when I wed Ned’s daughter to my heir. That’s what old Doran wants, really. He wants his own blood on the Iron Throne. And he lost that when that bastard Rhaegar lost to us and Tywin Lannister’s men killed his sister and her dragonspawn. He’s been a thorn in my side ever since, and that brother of his is even worse. But my plan makes his granddaughter a queen and puts her son on the Iron Throne—his direct descendant and not merely his nephew, so he comes out ahead.”

Catelyn didn’t think Doran Martell would ever see the murders of his sister and her children as ‘coming out ahead,’ but she remained silent as Robert went on to expound upon his plan and its benefits to all parties much as Ned had explained it to her in the godswood. 

When he finally finished speaking, Brandon said again, “I’d like to hear Ned’s thoughts.” He turned to his brother. “Robert makes a good case. If Doran agrees, it’s a hell of a match. You’d end up the father of the next ruling Prince or Princess of Dorne as well as the father of our next queen. We’d have Stark blood ruling in Winterfell, Dorne, and on the Iron Throne. If Cat and I could make a match for one or both of our girls with heirs to other great houses, House Stark would become the most influential House seen in a long time,” he said. Turning back to Robert, he said, “Does that not give you pause, Your Grace?”

“No,” Robert said without any hesitation. “With any other House, yes, it would. But Ned has been my brother since we were boys, and you became my brother has well—in shared combat and victories. I cannot wait to join our Houses through my son and Ned’s daughter.”

Brandon hesitated. “And what if I’d prefer to see one of my own daughters as queen, Your Grace?”

Catelyn stared at her husband. It was the correct question to ask from a political standpoint, but she knew that while Brandon was ambitious, he would never allow his ambition to put him at odds with his brother. She wondered what game he was playing with Robert.

Robert smiled. “Your daughters already show the promise of great beauty, my lord. The older one has her mother’s fine looks, and while the little one is coarser in appearance, she has enough of Lyanna’s look that I’ve no doubt she will break hearts as well. Either would make a fine queen. But neither of them can gift me with the loyalty of Dorne. Ned’s daughter can do that. If he makes this match.”

Brandon shrugged. “If he wishes it, I have no objection to it. As you say, it is a good match.”

“I do not wish it,” Ned said flatly.

“You are his liege lord,” Robert said. “Surely you could encourage him to think harder on this.” He smiled. “There are many more men I could compel to join the Night’s Watch, you know.”

Brandon bristled at that. “Your Grace,” he said stiffly. “You are my king and my friend. But I will not compel my brother into a marriage he does not wish even for the sake of a hundred men or more for the Watch. Ned is not something to be sold.”

Catelyn looked at Ned and saw the emotion behind his expressionless face at his brother’s fierce defense of his right to refuse this match. Mayhap he had worried for nothing. Brandon wouldn’t force him into marriage, and Brandon wouldn’t accept the legitimization of Rickard Snow. The king and Lord Ryswell had made this journey for naught.

“Of course, he isn’t for sale,” Robert thundered. “I’m offering him the best possible match in all the Seven Kingdoms--not handing him over to slavers! Gods, the two of you are more stubborn than any other men alive.” He shook his head. “I had not planned to speak of this in front of your lady wife, Brandon, but there is one more thing I would give you while I am here. Something I know you desire, but fear cannot be done without evil consequences.”

“What are you talking about, Robert?” Brandon asked, forgetting to use the king’s proper title in his irritation. He looked honestly confused, but he knew what Robert would say. He had to know.

“Your son,” he said simply. “Your son by Barbrey Ryswell. I know you wish to do right by him for the sake of the dishonor you brought to his mother—the daughter of one of your most loyal bannermen.”

The description of Rodrik Ryswell as one of Brandon’s most loyal bannermen almost caused Catelyn to laugh, but of course it had likely come from the man himself.

“I have done right by him,” Brandon stated. “I’ve acknowledged he’s mine, and he’ll be raised here at Winterfell. I’ll see him to the best place I can in the world, Your Grace. And I’ve told Lord Ryswell that.”

“I know what you’ve told Lord Ryswell, Brandon,” Robert said sympathetically. “I’ve seen the letters you’ve written.”

“The . . . the what?” Brandon asked, and Catelyn saw worry cross her husband’s handsome features for the first time since she and Ned had entered the solar. He’d thought he had a handle on this situation. He hadn’t known Ryswell would use his own words to trap him. She wished she and Ned had been able to speak with him alone.

“Your letters. The words of a father who would give his son the world if only he could. I’m a father, too, Brandon. I understand. I know you wish to give little Rickard your name. I would like to help you.”

“What?” Catelyn asked sharply. Of course, she’d already known this was where Robert was heading, but to hear this man who had gods knew how many bastards of his own in villages all over the Seven Kingdoms strained the limits of credibility beyond the breaking point.

Ned apparently agreed. “What of your own bastards, Your Grace?” he asked. “How is it you have given none of them your name if you’re filled with such paternal feeling?”

“Ned, this is different!” Robert insisted. “Barbrey Ryswell was no camp follower or serving girl! She was a highborn lady. Rickard is the son of two highborn parents, and it simply . . .”

“Edric Storm!” Ned countered. “His mother is as highborn as Barbrey Dustin. And you have acknowledged him and he is being raised at Storm’s End. That is no more than Brandon has done for Rickard. It is less, in fact, as Rickard will actually grow up knowing his father.”

“You forget yourself, Lord Eddard,” Robert said in a voice rather like thunder even though he didn’t speak as loudly as he had before. “I am your king.”

“You are my king, Your Grace,” Ned acknowledged. “Forgive me my outburst. But Brandon has never asked for Rickard to be legitimized.”

“He cannot ask it,” Robert said. “For he would not dishonor his lady wife. He would not have me give insult to Hoster Tully. Yet, giving the boy his name would help him with the bannermen who hold his treatment of Lady Barbrey against him. You cannot deny that.”

“I’ll not have a bastard usurp my children’s place, Your Grace. You cannot mean to do this.”

“Forgive me, Lady Stark, but your feelings, while understandable, are not the most important thing here. Your lord husband can do right by a child that he cares for, ease tensions among his bannermen, and I can help soothe any anger your lord father might harbor.”

“And how might you do that, Your Grace?” Ned asked him. 

“I will offer him a princess as the next Lady of Riverrun. I can betroth my daughter Myrcella to Lord Edmure.”

“Your daughter is not yet three years old!” Catelyn exclaimed. “My brother is nineteen!”

“And seems to be in no more hurry to wed than that uncle of yours. A princess is worth waiting for. Your lord father will see the wisdom in that.”

“My son Bran is younger than Rickard.” Brandon’s voice was quiet. It was the first time he’d spoken since learning that the king had read his letters to Rodrik Ryswell. Looking at his face now, Catelyn dearly wished she’d been able to read those letters herself. What, by all the gods, had Brandon said to the man? What, secure in the knowledge that the king would act according to Ned’s wishes, did he promise the bloody man?

“I can put a legitimized bastard behind your trueborn children, Brandon. I wouldn’t take anything from them.”

“Rodrik Ryswell would!” Catelyn nearly shouted. “He’ll take everything if you give him an opening. Don’t you see that? If you give this child the Stark name, my children’s very lives are in danger!” She didn’t even care that she wasn’t using the king’s title. Brandon wasn’t speaking out. He wasn’t insisting that he did not wish the child legitimized, and that frightened her.

“Come now, Lady Stark, we are speaking of one of your husband’s own bannermen. The Northern Houses have ever been leal to House Stark. You know that.”

“I know that you would make this child a Stark, Your Grace. To whom would Lord Ryswell give his fealty then?”

“I never wanted this,” Brandon said then, again in a voice much quieter than his usual. He seemed almost to be speaking to himself. “I never asked for it,” he said somewhat more loudly.

“You don’t have to ask, Lord Stark,” Robert said. “I can simply give this to you.”

“In exchange for making me wed Arianne Martell?” Ned asked.

“Your brother has already said he won’t sell you, Ned. I only ask him to use what influence he has to make you see reason.”

“Reason,” Brandon repeated. “I cannot . . . I cannot allow this, Your Grace.” His face was ashen, but he was finally saying the words Catelyn had wanted to hear. “Whatever I have said to Lord Ryswell or anyone else, I cannot allow Rickard to be made legitimate. The consequences are . . .”

“The consequences are negligible!” Robert said with a wave of his hand. “The consequences of refusing such a gift, however . . . if your own words are made known to your bannermen . . .”

“You wouldn’t do that, Robert,” Ned said. “You have more honor than that. I know you do.”

“I wouldn’t say a word, Ned, but Lord Ryswell knows I intend to legitimize his grandson. If Brandon refuses that offer, I cannot say what he might do . . . or what he might say to other people.”

Brandon looked positively ill, and Catelyn silently cursed him for whatever he’d written to the man. He was obviously terrified that refusing the king’s offer now would damage his standing somehow. Yet, he began to shake his head, and Catelyn knew that whatever the cost, her husband was going to protect her children. He would not agree to this.

Before he could speak again, however, Ned spoke. “I’ll marry Arianne Martell.”

Catelyn turned to look at him, unable to hide the shock and dismay she felt.

“Good for you, Ned!” Robert said. “I knew you could be made to see reason.”

“I’ll wed Dorne for you Robert,” Ned said carefully, “As long as you give me your word that you will never legitimize Rickard Snow.”

“What? Ned, I realize you’ve always been overprotective of your brother’s lady wife, but nothing bad will come of this. Your brother gets what he wants, Ryswell gets what he wants, I get what I want, and Hoster Tully gets a princess for a gooddaughter. Lady Stark will see that it’s best in time.”

“I don’t want this,” Brandon said firmly at the precise same time that Ned said, “I’m not doing this for her.”

Robert looked back and forth between the two of them, but Catelyn looked only at Ned who had a cold expression on his face.

“I don’t want this, Robert,” Brandon repeated more loudly. “Whatever I may have said to Rodrik Ryswell or anyone else, I . . .”

“I don’t care whether he wants it or not,” Ned said suddenly. His voice was colder than a north wind, and it cut Brandon off mid-sentence. “I’m not doing this for my brother or his wife, Robert. For more than two years now, I’ve asked you to legitimize Jon. My son. And you’ve denied me every time. You’ve been more concerned about my use as a political tool you could marry off. Very well. Marry me off. I agree. I’ll wed Arianne Martell if her father agrees or anyone else you ask me to. But if my son remains a bastard all his life, so does Brandon’s. That’s my price.”

Catelyn stared at him in shock. She knew now what he was doing. He may well be angry with Robert over the way he was being used and over his refusal to legitimize Jon. He had every right to be. But now he was playing a part. He was making it so that Robert must refuse to offer legitimization rather than have Brandon refuse to accept it. He was paying the cost so that she and Brandon wouldn’t have to. She felt sick. Her stomach heaved and she gripped the arms of her chair to steady herself.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Ned,” Robert said. His face appeared pale now. He had known Ned was angry with him, but he had never dreamed the man he still considered a brother would speak to him like this. “I could have you arrested for speaking so.”

“You could, Your Grace,” Ned said quietly. “But then I’d hardly be an attractive bridegroom prospect, would I?” He sighed. “I am your man, Robert. I always have been. And now I will consent to this one thing I’ve refused you. I give my word that I will pursue this marriage in good faith. I’ll court the girl and I’ll do my best to win over her father as well if needed. But first I must know that you will never legitimize Rickard. And that you will make it clear to Rodrik Ryswell and anyone else who asks that it was your decision.”

“And what reason could I possibly give?”

“I don’t care. Tell them the truth, if you like. Tell them you need me to wed Dorne, and this was my price. Let Ryswell hate me. I’ll be living far away, after all. At least Dorne is kinder to bastards than most places. My prospective bride’s uncle seems to collect them like trophies. Mayhap, she won’t mind Jon being somewhere close enough that I might see him.”

“Ned, you’re being unreasonable.”

“Perhaps I am. But I promise you, Your Grace, that if you legitimize that child, I will never wed anyone for you. I’ll go to Essos first. Or you can arrest me. But I won’t be much use to you in either case.”

Robert sighed. He didn’t care one way or another whether or not Rickard was legitimized, Catelyn knew. He simply didn’t want to look a fool in front of Ryswell. But since Brandon had stated plainly he didn’t want the little bastard made a Stark, Robert would give in to Ned in the end. She knew he would. And Ned would keep his word. Ned always kept his promises.

“You give me your word?” Robert asked finally.

“As long as I have yours,” Ned said, meeting the man’s eyes without blinking.

“Done,” the king said finally. “Done. But let’s not say anything to Ryswell just yet. I’d prefer to at least enjoy my meal this evening. And I need time to come up with a reason that I’ve decided, all on my own, that Rickard Snow must remain a Snow.” He shook his head and looked at Brandon. “Your brother has the hardest head I know when he gets an idea in it. But this marriage is as good for him as it is for me. Mayhap you can make him see that.” He sighed again and rose from his chair. Catelyn and the other two men immediately rose as well. “I will see you all in the Great Hall later. Is there someone here who can show me to my rooms?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said, and once more she walked to the door and opened it. Two servants stood outside along with a knight of the Kingsguard, and she didn’t even want to speculate about how much they had heard. She asked that one of them escort the king to his chambers and then watched as the white cloaked knight followed behind them silently. Then she turned back into the solar and without warning, the contents of her heaving stomach decided to empty themselves onto the polished floor.

“Cat!” Ned exclaimed, coming to steady her with an arm as Brandon looked on alarmed, but seemingly still too shocked by the turn of events to move.

“I’m all right,” she said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “Forgive me, my lords, I’m just . . .”

“Upset,” Brandon said then, coming to take her from Ned and lead her to a chair. “You’re upset, Cat, and I don’t blame you. That was . . .” He shook his head as if there was no word for what the recent moments in this solar had been. “Sit for a moment,” he told her. “Let your stomach settle. I’ll have someone clean that up in a bit.”

“You should take her to her room, Brandon,” Ned said. His voice sounded dull and lifeless.

“No, I’m all right. I only need to sit a moment. I have an idea . . . about what Robert can tell Lord Ryswell. Ned’s comment about Edric Storm made me think . . .”

“Later, Cat,” Ned said in that same dull voice. “We can discuss it all later.”

“I never wanted this,” Brandon said, looking at Ned, and Catelyn wondered how many times he would repeat it. None of them had ever wanted any of this.

“I know that, Brandon.”

“Ned, I’m . . .”

“Don’t say anything, brother. Please.” Ned walked across the room and leaned on Brandon’s desk for a moment while they all remained silent. “It’s over now,” he said after a moment. “However unhappy it makes him, Ryswell will know that Robert never intends to legitimize Rickard. You needn’t worry about it anymore.”

Catelyn felt the tears threaten. “But, Ned . . .” she started.

“I couldn’t very well remain unmarried all my life, I suppose. We can’t all be like your Uncle Brynden, Cat, regardless of how much I’d wish it.” He tried to smile at her. “I can do my duty, my lady. Just as you have always done yours.”

Brandon walked over to his brother then and clapped him on the back. “You’re a better man than I, Ned,” he said softly. “May you find your bride to be as strong and capable I have found mine to be.” He turned to look at her. “Are you certain you’re all right, my lady?” She nodded. “I’m going to my rooms,” he said then. “I need to . . . I shall see the two of you at dinner.”

“Has the queasiness passed yet?” Ned asked softly when Brandon had gone.

“I think so. I’m just going to be still for a bit until I’m sure.”

“You’re with child.” It wasn’t a question. 

She nodded. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?” he asked bitterly. “For lying with your husband? For giving him children? It’s what you’re supposed to do, Cat. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m sorry that we’ve taken your life away,” she said, letting the tears fall. “Brandon and I. We’ve pulled you in to the mess we’ve made, and taken whatever life you might have had.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “You are my life,” he said. “Regardless of the fact that you cannot be in my life as I would wish, the fact remains that you are my life. And I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done or ever will do to protect you.”

“It cost too much. What you did just now. Maybe . . . maybe it will work out. Maybe you will love this Dornish princess and . . .”

“No. It may work out all right. I hope I’m a decent husband to her at least. If she’ll even have me. I think Robert’s getting ahead of himself, to be honest. I’ll keep my word to him, Cat. I’ll wed where he tells me to wed, and I’ll do right by whatever woman that may be. But I won’t love her. I can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Don’t be. I suffer no more than you, and I know it. A child should make you glad, Cat. Is Brandon pleased?”

“He doesn’t know. I’ve only been certain myself for a short while.”

“How can he look at you and not know?” Ned asked incredulously. “I should have realized it when I first saw you in the courtyard—standing there, so remarkably beautiful. I even thought to myself that you seemed to glow. And I remember well how you glowed when you carried Sansa. Long before your belly grew large enough to be noticed, everything about you seemed to glow as if lit from within.”

“You watched me so closely?” she asked him. “Even then?”

“Always.” He’d remained by the desk at some distance from her. It was always safer for the two of them if they were too far to risk touching. But now he walked to where she sat, and brushed a stray strand of auburn hair out of her face. “I don’t remember not loving you. I can’t tell you when I first loved you because as soon as I realized I did, it seemed I always had. Gods know I tried not to, but I couldn’t seem to stop it. I still can’t.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I feel the same.”

“I wonder what Robert would think if he knew I’m not like your uncle at all, really. I’m not opposed to marriage. I sometimes dream of a life in which I could be your husband. But it’s only a dream. We have to live in the world we’ve been given, Cat.” Reluctantly he moved away from her. “Don’t feel badly about what happened here today. You are responsible for none of it, and I am neither the first nor the last man who will wed a girl he has no wish to wed. I shall be all right. So shall you.” He smiled. “You should tell Brandon about the babe. Let him announce it at dinner to the king and old Rodrik. That will raise his spirits.”

She nodded, wishing that she could care more about Brandon’s spirits at the moment. He deserved better than a wife who sat here wishing this babe were Ned’s. Wishing that she could live in some dream world where Ned was her husband. Brandon might have brought this on them with his philandering ways, but he wasn’t responsible for Robert Baratheon’s schemes. And he had been prepared to tell the king no. Had Ned not intervened, Brandon would have refused the offer knowing it would cause him to lose face among his bannermen if his letters were made known to them. Even as she tried acknowledge her husband’s courage just now, she couldn’t entirely keep from being angry that he hadn’t been that strong all along. He should have told the Ryswells he would never want the child legitimized from the very beginning. Then Ned wouldn’t have to wed this Dornish girl and take her to bed and . . .

“Cat?”

She looked up, startled. 

“I fear you were far away, my lady. I said your name three times.”

She tried to smile. “Lost in thought, I’m afraid. Brandon was correct when he said today was brutal.”

“Indeed. But you will survive it, my lady. You are the strongest of us by far.”

Catelyn knew that to be far from true, but she didn’t argue with him. 

“Shall I walk you to your chambers?”

“No. Go on, Ned. I’ll sit a moment longer and then I’ll get someone to clean this floor, and I’ll go to the nursery. Hopefully Lord Ryswell has gotten bored with pretending to care about the bastard and left already.”

“I thought Brandon said he would send someone to clean.”

She laughed at that. “Oh, he meant to. But I know him well. He’ll forget. You could check on the boys for me. Gods only know what they’ll get up to as I’ve essentially given them the run of the castle.”

He laughed. “They’ll get up to no good, I expect. But they won’t do anything too terrible. They’re good boys.”

“They are.” She watched him standing there looking at her. For all that he’d moved away from her, she could still feel the echo of his fingers in her hair, and she felt as if he were touching her now with his gaze. Brandon had no idea she was with child. He lived with her, shared her meals and her bed. But he hadn’t seen it. Ned had been in Winterfell less than a day, and his eyes saw everything about her. Once again she wished this babe was his—that she could be the one to give him children he could give his name and call his own. 

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “About Jon. About not being able to give him your name.”

Ned shrugged slightly. “At least that is one mark in Dorne’s favor. I spoke truly when I said attitudes toward bastards tend to be more lenient there. I should someday like to live with my son.” A shadow crossed his face, and she knew he thought of his daughter—the daughter he would never live with or even claim.

“I hope so,” she said. “You deserve happiness, Ned.”

“Smile at dinner tonight, Cat,” he said. “Smile and be joyful about your new babe. And your smile will be my happiness." He looked directly into her eyes as he spoke, and for a brief moment his face was unguarded. All he felt for her showed so clearly that anyone could have seen it in that instant. Then his expression and voice resumed their characteristic cool solemnity. "I’ll go find Robb and Jon.”

He left without saying anything else, and Catelyn felt her heart leave with him. He didn’t know it, but in one way, he was more like her Uncle Brynden than he knew. She hadn’t realized it as a child, but she now knew without a doubt that her uncle's refusal to marry had nothing to do with being opposed to marriage in general. He simply had loved someone it was impossible for him to marry. She recalled the knight well enough. He’d nearly always been in her uncle’s company, but never had she witnessed anything improper between them. It was only as a grown woman that she understood the way her uncle had looked at him. It was the way Ned looked at her sometimes when other people were present—knowing they couldn’t touch or even speak of anything in their hearts. She supposed she should have been shocked and appalled when she’d realized her uncle’s true nature. And had she recognized it when she was younger, she might have been. She’d been taught that type of love was unnatural after all. But all she could feel for her uncle was a sad sense of kinship in loving deeply where love was not allowed. If the gods wanted to judge her for that, so be it. She certainly had given them far better reasons to judge her harshly already.

As she stood slowly to go and see to Bran and the girls, she wished suddenly that she could see her uncle. She’d shared so many secrets with him as a girl. Her father loved her, and she loved him dearly in return. But Brynden had been her confidante once her mother died. She wondered what he would say if she confided in him about Ned. Would he judge her? Would he have any words of wisdom for her? Of course, he was in King’s Landing with Lysa, so she couldn’t ask him, and she knew she wouldn’t anyway—even if he did come to Winterfell. Some secrets couldn’t be shared with anyone, regardless of how much you trusted them.

When she reached the nursery, Bran was napping in his cot, Sansa was serving imaginary lemoncakes to her dolls, and Arya was simply rolling around on the floor—seemingly attempting to roll from one side of the room to the other as quickly as she could. When she saw Catelyn in the doorway, however, she jumped up and propelled herself into Catelyn’s skirts, grabbing her around the legs.

“Mama!” she cried, grinning up at her. “I uv you!”

Catelyn looked down into her daughter’s big grey eyes—Ned’s eyes—and smiled at her even as her heart broke thinking about what Ned had done for all of them today. And what he would have to do in the future.

She bent down to pick Arya up and hold her tight. “I love you too, sweetling,” she whispered. This secret was hers and Ned’s. And whatever they had to do, wherever Ned had to go, this secret would remain theirs forever.


End file.
